CIHM 

ICIMH 

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ues 


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Cover  title  missing  /  Le  titre  de  couverture  manque 

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r^  Coloured  inl<  (i.e.  other  than  blue  or  black)  / 


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Coloured  plates  and/or  illustrations  / 
Planches  et/ou  illustrations  en  couleur 


D 
D 

D 


n 


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Only  edition  available  / 
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This  Kwn  la  f  ilnMd  at  th*  raduetion  ratio  chackad  balow  / 

Ca  documant  aat  filing  au  taux  de  rMuetlon  lndlqti«  ci-deatcua. 


L'Instttut  a  microfilm^  le  meilleur  exemplaire  qu'il  lui  a 
6t6  possible  de  se  procurer.  Les  details  de  cet  exem- 
plaire qui  sont  peut-dtre  uniques  du  point  de  vue  bibli- 
ographique,  qui  peuvent  modifier  une  image  reproduite, 
ou  qui  peuvent  exiger  une  modification  dans  la  m^tho- 
de  normale  de  filmage  sont  indk^ute  ci-dessous. 

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I I   Pages  damaged  /  Pages  endommagdes 


n 


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ry{  Quality  of  print  varies  / 


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lOx 

14x 

18x 

22x 

26x 

30x 

J 

12x 

16x 

2QX 

24x 

28x 

a9v 

The  copy  filmed  h«r*  has  b««n  reproduced  thanks 
to  tha  ganarosity  of: 

University  of  Victoria 
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conformit*  avac  lea  conditions  du  contrat  de 
filmage. 


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d'impression  ou  d'illustration,  soit  par  la  second 
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pramiire  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impreasion  ou  d'illustration  at  an  terminant  par 
la  darnlAre  page  qui  comporte  une  telle 
empreinte. 


The  laat  recorded  frame  on  each  microfiche 
shall  contain  the  symbol  —^^1  meaning  "CON- 
TINUED"), or  the  symbol  ▼  (meaning  "END"), 
whichever  applies. 


Un  dee  symboles  suivants  apparaitra  sur  la 
darniAre  image  de  cheque  microfiche,  selon  le 
cas:  le  symbole  -^^  signifie  "A  SUIVRE",  le 
symbols  V  signifie  "FIN". 


Maps,  plates,  charts,  etc.,  mey  be  filmed  et 
different  reduction  ratioa.  Those  too  large  to  be 
entirely  included  in  one  exposure  are  filmed 
beginning  in  the  upper  left  hand  corner,  left  to 
right  and  top  to  bonom,  as  many  framea  aa 
required.  The  following  diagrams  illustrate  the 
method: 


Lea  cartes,  planches,  tableaux,  etc.,  pauvent  itre 
filmte  A  das  taux  de  reduction  diffirents. 
Lorsque  le  document  est  trop  grand  pour  Atre 
reproduit  en  un  seul  clichi,  il  est  film*  i  partir 
de  Tangle  supArieur  gauche,  de  gauche  A  droite, 
et  de  haut  en  baa,  en  prenant  le  nombre 
d'images  nteessaire.  Les  diagrammes  suivants 
illustrent  la  m^thode. 


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MICROCOTY   RfSOlUTION   TBT  CHART 

(ANSI  and  ISO  TEST  CHART  No.  2) 


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A  APPLIED  IM/JGE 

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I^S  Rochester.  Ne»  York        U609       USA 

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Printed  by  permission  of  s.  T.  Ka 


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THE 

SOCIAL  SIGNIFICANCE 

OF  nifi  MODERN 

DRAMA 

EMMA  GOLDMAN 


BOSTON:  RICHARD  G.  BADGER 

TORONTO:  THE  COPP  CLARK  CO..  LIMITED 


UNIVERSITY  0»  ViaORIA 

LIBRARY 

Vicf.H,,  i.  c. 


Copyright,  1914,  by  Richard  G.  Badger 
All  Rights  Reserved 


Press  of 

J.  J.  Little  &  Ives  Company 
New  York 


FOREWORD 


In  order  to  understand  the  social  and  dynamic 
significance  of  modern  dramatic  art  it  is  necessary, 
I  believe,  to  ascertain  the  difference  between  the 
functions  of  art  for  art's  sake  and  art  as  the  mir- 
ror of  life. 

Art  for  art's  sake  presupposes  an  attitude  of 
aloofness  on  the  part  of  the  artist  toward  the  com- 
plex struggle  of  life :  he  must  rise  above  the  ebb 
and  tide  of  life.  He  is  to  be  merely  an  artistic 
conjurer  of  beautiful  forms,  a  creator  of  pure 
fancy. 

That  is  not  the  attitude  of  modern  art,  which  is 
preeminently  the  reflex,  the  mirror  of  life.  The 
artist  being  a  part  of  life  cannot  detach  himself  " 
from  the  events  and  occurrences  that  pass  pan- 
orama-like before  his  eyes,  impressing  themselves 
upon  his  emotional  and  intellectual  vision. 

The  modern  artist  Is,  in  the  words  of  August 
Strindberg,  "  a  lay  preacher  popularizing  the  press- 
ing questions  of  his  time."  Not  necessarily  be- 
cause his  aim  Is  to  proselyte,  but  because  he  can 
best  express  himself  by  being  true  to  life. 

Millet,  Meunier,  Turgenev,  Dostoyevsky,  Em- 
erson, Walt  Whitman,  Tolstoy,  Ibsen,  Strindberg, 

3 


4  Foreword 

Hauptmann  and  a  host  of  others  mirror  in  their 
work  as  much  of  the  spiritual  and  social  revolt  as  is 
expressed  by  the  most  fiery  speech  of  the  propa- 
gandist. And  more  important  still,  they  compel 
far  greater  attention.  Their  creative  genius,  im- 
bued with  the  spirit  of  sincerity  and  truth,  strikes 
root  where  the  ordinary  word  often  falls  on  barren 
soil. 

The  reason  that  many  radicals  as  well  as  conser- 
vatives fail  to  grasp  the  powerful  message  of  art  is 
perhaps  not  far  to  $eek.  The  average  radical  is 
as  hidebound  by  mere  terms  as  the  man  devoid  of 
all  ideas.  "  Bloated  plutocrats,"  "  economic  de- 
terminism," "  class  consciousness,"  and  similar  ex- 
pressions sum  up  for  him  the  symbols  of  revolt. 
But  since  art  speaks  a  language  of  its  own,  a  lan- 
guage embracing  the  entire  gamut  of  human  emo- 
tions, it  often  sounds  meaningless  to  those  whose 
hearing  has  been  dulled  by  the  din  of  stereotyped 
phrases. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  conservative  sees  danger 
only  In  the  advocacy  of  the  Red  Flag.  He  has  too 
long  been  fed  on  the  historic  legend  that  it  Is  only 
the  "  rabble  "  which  makes  revolutions,  and  not 
those  who  wield  the  brush  or  pen.  It  is  therefore 
legitimate  to  applaud  the  artist  and  hound  the  rab- 
ble. Both  radical  and  conservative  have  to  learn 
that  any  mode  of  creative  work,  which  with  true 
perception  portrays  social  wrongs  earnestly  and 


Foreword  t 

boldly,  may  be  a  greater  menace  to  our  social 
fabric  and  a  more  powerful  inspiration  than  the 
wildest  harangue  of  the  soapbox  orator. 

Unfortunately,  we  in  America  have  so  far 
looked  upon  the  theater  as  a  place  of  amusement 
only,  exclusive  of  ideas  and  inspiration.  Because 
the  modern  drama  of  Europe  has  till  recently  been 
inaccessible  in  printed  form  to  the  average  theater- 
goer in  this  country,  he  had  to  content  himself  with 
the  interpretation,  or  rather  misinterpretation,  of 
our  dramatic  critics.  As  a  result  the  social  signif- 
icance of  the  Modern  Drama  has  well  nigh  been 
lost  to  the  general  public. 

As  to  the  native  drama,  America  has  so  far  pro- 
duced very  little  worthy  to  be  considered  in  a  social 
light.  Lacking  the  cultural  and  evolutior.arv  tra- 
dition of  the  Old  World,  America  has  neces  .rily 
first  to  prepare  the  soil  out  of  which  sprouts 
creative  genius. 

The  hundred  and  one  springs  of  local  and  sec- 
tional life  must  have  time  to  furrow  their  common 
channel  into  the  seething  sea  of  life  at  large,  and 
social  questions  and  problems  make  themselves 
felt,  if  not  crystallized,  before  the  throbbing  pulse 
of  the  big  national  heart  can  find  its  reflex  in  a 
great  literature  --  and  specifically  in  the  drama  — 
of  a  social  character.  This  evolution  has  been  go- 
mg  on  in  this  country  for  a  considerable  time, 
shaping  the  wide-spread  unrest  that  is  now  begin- 


i 


6  Foreword 

ning  to  assume  more  or  less  definite  social  form 
and  expression. 

Therefore,  America  could  not  so  far  produce  its 
own  social  drama.  But  in  proportion  as  the  crys- 
tallization progresses,  and  sectional  and  national 
questions  become  clarified  as  fundamentally  social 
problems,  the  drama  develops.  Indeed,  very  com- 
mendable beginnings  in  this  direction  have  been 
made  within  recent  years,  among  them  "The 
Easiest  Way,"  by  Eugene  Walter,  "  Keeping  Up 
Appearances,"  and  other  plays  by  Butler  Daven- 
port, "Nowadays"  and  two  others  volumes  of 
one-act  plays,  by  George  Middleton,— attempts 
that  hold  out  an  encouraging  promise  for  the  fu-  • 
ture. 


The  Modern  Drama,  as  all  modern  literature, 
mirrors  the  complex  struggle  of  life,—  the  strug- 
gle which,  whatever  its  individual  or  topical  expres- 
sion, ever  has  its  roots  in  the  depth  of  human  na- 
ture and  social  environment,  and  hence  is,  to  that 
extent,  universal.  Such  literati' -e,  such  drama,  is 
at  once  the  reflex  and  the  inspi-  ''  nankind  in 

its  eternal  seeking  for  things  highei  'etter. 

Perhaps  those  who  learn  the  great  truths  o.  ihe  so- 
cial travail  in  the  school  of  life,  do  not  need  the 
message  of  the  drama.  But  there  is  another  class 
whose  number  is  legion,  for  whom  that  message  is 


Foreword 


indispensable.  In  countries  where  political  oppres- 
sion affects  all  classes,  the  best  intellectual  element 
have  made  common  cause  with  the  people,  have 
become  their  teachers,  comrades,  and  spokesmen. 
But  in  America  political  pressure  has  so  far  affected 
only  the  "  common  "  people.  It  is  they  who  are 
thrown  into  prison;  they  who  are  persecuted  and 
mobbed,  tarred  and  deported.  Therefore  another 
medium  is  needed  to  arouse  the  intellectuals  of  this 
country,  to  make  them  realize  their  relation  to  the 
people,  to  the  social  unrest  permeating  the  atmos- 
phere. 

The  medium  which  has  the  power  to  do  that  is 
the  Modern  Drama,  because  it  mirrors  every  phase 
of  life  and  embraces  every  strata  of  society, —  the 
Modern  Drama,  showing  each  and  all  caught  in 
the  throes  of  the  tremendous  changes  going  on,  and 
forced  either  to  become  part  of  the  process  or  be 
left  behind. 

Ibsen,  Strindberg,  Hauptmann,  Tolstoy,  Shaw, 
Galsworthy  and  the  other  dramatists  contained  in 
this  volume  represent  the  social  iconoclasts  of  our 
time.  They  knovr^  .that  society  has  gone  beyond 
the  stage  of  patching  up,  and  that  man  must  throw 
of  '"e  dead  weight  of  the  past,  with  all  its  ghosts  - 
ar,  *pooks,  if  he  is  to  go  foot  free  to  meet  the 
future. 

This  is  the  social  significance  which  differentiates 


0 

I 


8 


Foreword 


modem  dramatic  art  from  art  for  art's  sake.     It 
is  the  dynamite  which  undermines  superstition,    \ 
shakes  the  social  pillars,  and  prepares  men  and    ' 
women  for  the  reconstruction. 


^foT^^-m-e         Ua^u/'9'9tJ>riup 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 


PACE 
Foreword - 

The  Scandinavian  Drama 

Henrik  Ibsen .  11 

The   Pillars   of   Society     ...  i^ 

A  Doll's  House .*     !     !  i8 

Ghosts  .'2  s 

An  Ene.Tiy  of  Society 34 

August  Strindbrrg ., 

The  Father •      •      •      •  45 

Countess  Julie !      .'  51 

Comrades !      !  61 

The  German  Drama 

Hermann   Sudermann       .      .  5q 

Magda         .'.*.".'.'     71 

The  Fires  of  St.  John ."go 

Gerhart  Hauptmann g_ 

Lonely  Lives 87 

The   Weavers  ...  *     08 

The  Sunken  Bell  ...!!!!!   108 

Frank    fVedekind       .      .      .      .  .      ^      .118 

The  Awakening  of  Spring    .     .     ]     \     [   ug 

The  French  Drama 

Maurice  Maeterlinck J2Q 

Monna   Vanna        •...!.*.'.  120 

Edmond  Rostand j^g 

Chantecler •     i     .*     !  1^8 


Table  of  Contents 

B.eux » 

Damaged  Goods .'     .*     .   147 

Maternity '      ...    161 

The  English  Drama 

George  Bernard  Shaw i^* 

Mrs.   Warren's   Profession      .      '.      '.      *.  '    /yl 

Major  Barbara .    186 

John   Galsworthy       ...  ,n6 

?*"^.« .*.'.'!."    197 

Justice 208 

The  Pigeon 21c 

Stanley  Houghton 226 

Hindle  Wakes       ........  226 

Githa  Sowerby 2ie 

Rutherford  and  Son    .....!.  23  s 
The  Irish  Drama 

h'illiam  Butler   Yeats 250 

Where  There  Is  Nothing      .     .      !     !      !  252 

Lenox  Robinson         261 

Harvest !      !     !      !  261 

T.  G.  Murray 267 

Maurice  Harte 267 

The  Russian  Drama 

Leo    Tolstoy  27e 

The  Power  of  Darkness    ......   276 

Anton   Tchekhof         281 

The  Seagull '  284. 

The  Cherry  Orchard        ......   290 

Maxim   Gorki 2^4, 

A  Night's  Lodging     ...'.*     .'     .*     .'  jgj 
Leonid  Andreyev -iq- 

King-Hunger *  ^02 


THE  SOCIAL  SIGNIFICANCE 
OF  THE  MODERN  DRAMA 

THE  SCANDINAVIAN  DRAMA 

HENRIK  IBSEN 

IN  a  letter  to  George  Brandes,  shortly  after 
the  Paris  Commune,  Henrik  Ibsen  wrote 
concerninjT  the  State  and  political  liberty: 
"The  State  is  the  curse  of  the  individ- 
ual. How  has  the  national  strength  of  Prussia 
been  purchased  ?  By  the  sinking  of  the  individual 
in  a  political  and  geographical  formula.  .  .  .  The 
State  must  go  I  That  will  be  a  revolution  which 
will  find  me  on  its  side.  Undermine  the  idea  of 
the  State,  set  up  in  its  place  spontaneous  action, 
and  the  idea  that  spiritual  relationship  is  the  only 
thing  that  makes  for  unity,  and  you  will  start  the 
elements  of  a  liberty  which  will  be  something 
worth  possessing." 

The  State  was  not  the  only  bete  noire  of  Henrik 
Ibsen.  Every  other  institution  which,  like  the 
State,  rests  upon  a  lie,  was  an  iniquity  to  him. 
Uncompromising  demolisher  of  all  false  idols  and 
dynamiter  of  all  social  shams  and  hypocrisy,  Ibsen 


XI 


13 


Henrik  Ibsen 


consistently  strove  to  uproot  every  stone  of  our 
social  structure.  Abo.e  all  did  he  thunder  his 
hery  indictment  against  the  four  cardinal  sins  of 
modern  society:  the  Lie  inherent  in  our  social 
arrangements;  Sacrifice  and  Duty,  tl.c  twin  curses 
that  fetter  the  spirit  of  man;  tiie  narrow-minded- 
ness  and  pettiness  of  Provincialism,  that  stifles  all 
growth;  and  the  Lack  of  Joy  and  Purpose  in  Work 
which  turns  life  into  a  vale  of  misery  and  tears 

So  strongly  did  Ibsen  feel  on  these  matters,  that 
m  none  of  his  works  did  he  lose  sight  of  them. 
Indeed,  they  recur  again  and  agaiu,  like  a  Lett- 
motif  in  music,  m  everything  he  wrote.  These 
issues  torm  the  keynote  to  the  revolutionary  sig- 
nificance of  h.s  dramatic  works,  as  well  as  to  the 
psychology  of  Henrik  Ibsen  himself. 

It  IS,  therefore,  not  a  little  surprising  that  most 
of  the  interpreters  and  admirers  of  Ibsen  so  en- 
thusiastically  accept  his  art,  and  yet  remain  utterly 
indifferent  to   not  to  say  ignorant  of,  the  message 
ontained  in  it     That  is  mainly  because  they  are, 
in  the  words  of  Mrs.  Alving,  "  so  pitifully  afraid 
of  the  light."     Hence  they  go  about  seeking  n.ys- 
teries  and  hunting  symbols,  and  completely  losing 
sight  of  the  meaning  that  is  as  clear  as  daylight 
m  all  of  the  works  of  Ibsen,  and  mainly  in  die 
group  of  his  social  plays,  "The  Pillars  of  So- 
ciety," "A  Doll's  House,"  "Ghosts,"  and  "An 
Enemy  of  the  People." 


The  Pillars  of  Society 


13 


•T 

re- 


THE  PILLARS  OF  SOCIETY 

The  disintegrating  effect  of  the  Social  Lie,  of 
Duty,  as  an  imposition  and  outrage,  and  of  the 
spirit  of  Provincialism,  as  a  stifling  factor,  arc 
brought  out  with  dynamic  force  in  "  The  Pillars 
of  Society." 

Consul  Bernlck,  driven  by  the  conceptior  ^ 
duty  toward  the  House  of  Bernick,  beg  as 
career  with  a  terrible  lie.  He  sells  his  lo 
Lona  Hessel  in  return  for  the  large  dowr. 
step-sister  Betty,  whom  he  does  not  love.  1 
get  his  treachery,  he  enters  into  a  dandest  _  .^ 
lationship  with  an  actress  of  the  town.  When  sur- 
prised in  her  room  by  the  drunken  husband,  young 
Bernick  jumps  out  of  the  window,  and  then  gra- 
ciously accepts  the  offer  of  his  bosom  friend, 
Johan,  to  let  him  take  the  blame. 

Johan,  together  with  his  faithful  sJ  :t  Lnng 
leaves  for  America.  In  return  for  his  devotuw 
young  Bernick  helps  to  rob  his  friend  of  his  go* 
name,  by  acquiescing  in  the  rumors  circulating  m 
the  town  that  Johan  had  broken  into  the  jafc  of 
the  Bernicks  and  stolen  a  large  sum  of  money. 

In  the  opening  scene  of  •*  The  Pillars  of  So- 
ciety," we  find  Consul  Bernick  at  the  height  of  his 
career.  The  richest,  most  powerful  and  respected 
citizen  of  the  community,  he  is  held  up  as  the 


14 


Henrik  Ibsen 


m 


model  of  an  ideal  husband  and  devoted  father. 
In  short,  a  worthy  pillar  of  society. 

The  best  ladies  of  the  town  come  together  in 
the  home  of  the  Bernicks.  They  represent  the 
society  for  the  "Lapsed  and  Lost,"  and  they 
gather  to  do  a  little  charitable  sewing  and  a  lot 
of  charitable  gossip  It  is  through  them  we  learn 
that  D'wa  Dorf,  tne  ward  of  Bernick,  is  the  issue 
of  the  supposed  escapade  of  Johan  and  the  actress. 

With  them,  giving  unctuous  spiritual  advice  and 
representing  the  purity  and  morality  of  the  com- 
munity, is  Rector  Rorlund,  hidebound,  self-right- 
eous, and  narrow-minded. 

Into  this  deadening  atmosphere  of  mental  and 
social  provincialism  comes  Lona  Hessel,  refreshing 
and  invigorating  as  the  wind  of  the  plains.  She 
has  returned  to  her  native  town  together  with 
Johan. 

The  moment  she  enters  the  house  of  Bernick 
the  whole  structure  begins  to  totter.  For  in 
Louies  own  words,  "Fie,  fie  — this  moral  linen 
here  smells  so  tainted  —  just  Hlce  a  shroud.  I  am 
accustomed  to  the  air  of  the  prairies  now,  I  can 
tell  you.  .  .  .  Wait  a  little,  wait  a  little  — we'll 
soon  rise  from  the  sepulcher.  We  must  have 
broad  daylight  here  when  my  boy  comes." 

Broad  daylight  is  indeed  needed  in  the  com- 
munity  of  Consul  Bernick,  and  above  all  In  the 
life  of  the  Consul  himself. 


(The  Pillars  of  Society 


IS 


It  iccms  to  be  the  psychology  of  a  lie  that  it 
can  never  stand  alone.  Consul  Bernick  is  com- 
pelled to  weave  a  network  of  lies  to  sustain  his 
foundation.  In  the  disguise  of  a  good  husband, 
he  upbraids,  nags,  and  tortures  his  wife  on  the 
slightest  provocation.  In  the  mask  of  a  devoted 
father,  he  tyrannizes  and  bullies  his  only  child  as 
only  a  despot  used  to  being  obeyed  can  do.  Un- 
der the  cloak  of  a  benevolent  citizen  he  buys  up 
public  land  for  his  own  profit.  Posing  as  a  true 
Christian,  he  even  goes  so  far  as  to  jeopardize 
human  life.  Because  of  business  considerations 
he  sends  The  Indian  Girl,  an  unseaworthy,  rotten 
vessel,  on  a  voyage,  although  he  is  assured 
by  one  of  his  most  capable  and  faithful  workers 
that  the  ship  cannot  make  the  journey,  th?t  It  is 
sure  to  go  down.  But  Consul  Bernick  is  a  pillar 
of  society;  he  needs  the  respect  and  good  will  of 
his  fellow  citizens.  He  must  go  from  precipice 
to  precipice,  to  keep  up  appearances. 

Lona  alone  sees  ':e  abyss  facing  him,  and  tells 
him :  "  What  does  it  matter  whether  such  a  so- 
ciety is  supported  or  not?  What  is  it  that  passes 
current  here?  Lies  and  shams -- nothing  else. 
Here  are  you,  the  first  man  in  the  town,  living  in 
wealth  and  pride,  in  power  and  honor,  you,  who 
have  set  the  brand  of  crime  upon  an  innocent 
man."     She  might  have  added,   many  innocent 


i6 


Henrik  Ibsen 


men,  for  Johan  was  not  the  only  one  at  whose 
expense  Karsten  Bernick  built  up  his  career. 
^^  The  end  is  inevitable.  In  the  words  of  Lona: 
"  All  this  eminence,  and  you  yourself  along  with 
It,  stand  on  a  trembling  quicksand;  a  moment  may 
come,  a  word  may  be  spoken,  and,  if  you  do  not 
save  yourself  in  time,  you  and  your  whole 
grandeur  go  to  the  bottom." 

But  for  Lona,  or,  rather,  what  she  symbolizes, 
Bernick  — Qvtn  as  The  Indian  Girl— would  go 
to  the  bottom. 

In  the  last  act,  the  whole  town  is  preparing  to 
give  the  great  philanthropist  and  benefactor,  the 
eminent  pillar  of  society,  an  ovation.     There  are 
fireworks,  music,  gifts  and  speeches  in  honor  of 
Consul  Bernick.     At  that  very  moment,  the  only 
child  of  the  Consul  is  hiding  in  The  Indian  Girl  to 
escape  the  tyranny  of  his  home.     Johan,  too,  is 
supposed  to  sail  on  the  same  ship,  and  with  him, 
Dma,  who  has  learned  the  whole  truth  and  is  eager 
to  escape  from  her  prison,  to  go  to  a  free  atmos- 
phere, to  become  independent,  and  then  to  unite 
with  Johan  in  love  and  freedom.     As  Dina  says: 
"  Yes,  I  will  be  your  wife.     But  first  I  will  work, 
and  become  something  for  myself,  just  as  you  are. 
I  will  give  myself,  I  will  not  be  taken." 

Consul  Bernick,  too,  is  beginning  to  realize 
himself.  The  strain  of  events  and  the  final  shock 
that  he  had  exposed  his  own  child  to  such  peril, 


The  Pillars  of  Society  '  17 

act  like  a  stroke  of  lightning  on  the  Consul.  It 
makes  him  see  that  a  house  built  on  lies,  shams, 
and  crime  must  eventually  sink  by  its  own  weight. 
Surrounded  by  those  who  truly  love  and  therefore 
understand  him,  Consul  Bernick,  no  longer  the 
pillar  of  society,  but  the  man  becomes  conscious 
of  his  better  self. 

"Where  have  I  been?"  he  exclaims.  "You 
will  be  horrified  when  you  know.  Now,  I  feel 
as  if  I  had  just  recovered  my  senses  after  being 
poisoned.  But  I  feel  — I  feel  that  I  can  be 
young  and  strong  again.  Oh,  come  nearer  — 
closer  around  me.  Come,  Betty  1  Come,  Olaf ! 
Come,  Martha  I  Oh,  Martha,  it  seems  as  though 
I  had  never  seen  you  in  all  these  years.  And  we 
—  we  have  a  long,  earnest  day  of  work  before 
us;  I  most  of  all.  But  let  it  come;  gather  close 
around  me,  you  true  and  faithful  women.  I  have 
learned  this,  in  these  days:  it  is  you  women  who 
are  the  Pillars  of  Society." 

Lena:  "  Then  you  have  learned  a  poor  wis- 
dom, brother-in-law.  No,  no;  the  spirit  of  Truth 
and  of  Freedom  —  these  are  the  Pillars  of  Soci- 
ety." 

The  spirit  of  truth  and  freedom  Is  the  socio- 
revolutlonary  significance  of  "  The  Pillars  of  Soci- 
ety." Those,  who,  like  Consul  Bernick,  fail  to 
realize  this  all-Important  fact,  go  on  patching  up 
The  Indian  Girl,  which  is  Ibsen's  symbol  for  our 


i8 


!i    I 


Henrik  Ibsen 


society.  But  they,  too,  must  learn  that  society  is 
rotten  to  the  core ;  that  patching  up  or  reforming 
one  sore  spot  merely  drives  the  social  poison 
deeper  into  the  system,  and  that  all  must  go  to  the 
bottom  unless  the  spirit  of  Truth  and  Freedom 
revolutionize  the  world. 


A  DOLL'S  HOUSE 

In  "A  i^oll's  House"  Ibsen  returns  to  the 
-  iect  so  vital  to  him,— the  Social  Lie  and  Duty, 
•  -this  time  as  manifesting  themselves  in  the  sacred 
mstitution  of  the  home  and  in  the  position  of 
woman  in  her  gilded  cage. 

Nora  is  the  beloved,  adored  wife  of  Toruald 
Helmer.  He  is  an  admirable  man,  rigidly  hon- 
est, of  high  moral  ideals,  and  passionately  devoted 
to  his  wife  and  children.  In  short,  a  good  man 
and  an  enviable  husband.  Almost  every  mother 
would  be  proud  of  such  a  match  for  her  daughter, 
and  the  latter  would  consider  herself  lortunate 
to  become  the  wife  of  such  a  man. 

Nora,  too,  considers  herself  fortunate.  In- 
deed, she  worships  her  husband,  believes  in  him 
m^plicitly,  and  is  sure  that  if  ever  her  safety  should 
be  menaced,  Torvald,  her  idol,  her  god,  would 
perform  the  miracle. 

When  a  woman  loves  as  Nora  does,  nothing 


A  Doll's  House 


19 


else  matters;  least  of  all,  social,  legal  or  moral 
considerations.  Therefore,  when  her  husband's 
life  is  threatened,  it  Is  no  effort,  it  is  joy  for  Nora 
to  forge  her  father's  name  to  a  note  and  borrow 
800  cronen  on  it,  in  order  to  take  her  sick  husband 
to  Italy. 

In  her  eagerness  to  serve  her  husband,  and  in 
perfect  innocence  of  the  legal  aspect  of  her  act, 
she  does  not  give  the  matter  much  thought,  except 
for  her  anxiety  to  shield  him  from  any  emergency 
that  may  call  upon  him  to  perform  the  miracle  in 
her  behalf.  She  works  hard,  and  saves  every 
penny  of  her  pin-money  to  pay  back  the  amount 
she  borrowed  on  the  forged  check. 

Nora  is  light-hearted  and  gay,  apparently  with- 
out depth.     Who,  indeed,  would  expect  depth  of 
a  doll,  a  "squirrel,"  a  song-bird?     Her  purpose 
in  life  is  to  be  happy  for  her  husband's  sake,  for 
the  sake  of  the  children;  to  sing,  dance,  and  play 
with  them.     Besides,   is   she   not  shielded,   pro- 
tected,  and  cared  for?     Who,  then,  would  suspect 
Nora  of  depth?     But  already   in   the   opening 
scene,  when  Torvald  inquires  what  his  precious 
"  squirrel "  wants  for  a  Christmas  present,  Nora 
quickly  asks  him  for  money.     Is  it  to  buy  maca- 
roons or  finery?     In  her  talk  with  Mrs.  Linden, 
Nora  reveals  her  inner  self,  and  forecasts  the  in- 
evitable debacle  of  her  doll's  house. 

After  telling  her  friend  how  she  had  saved  her 


20 


Henrik  Ibsen 


husband,  Nora  says:  "  When  Torvald  gave  me 
money  for  clothes  and  so  on,  I  never  used  more 
than  half  of  it;  I  always  bought  the  simplest 
things.  .  .  .  Torvald  never  noticed  anything. 
But  it  was  often  very  hard,  Christina  dear.  For 
it's  nice  to  be  beautifully  dressed.  Now,  isn't 
it?  .  .  .  Well,  and  besides  that,  I  made  money  in 
other  ways.  Last  winter  I  was  so  lucky  —  I  got 
a  heap  of  copying  to  do.  I  shut  myself  up  every 
e-ening  and  wrote  far  into  the  night.  Oh,  some- 
times I  was  so  tired,  so  tired.  And  yet  it  was 
splendid  to  work  in  that  way  and  earn  money.  I 
almost  felt  as  if  I  was  a  man." 

Down  deep  in  the  consciousness  of  Nora  there 
evidently  slumbers  personality  and  character, 
which  could  come  into  full  bloom  only  through  a 
great  miracle  —  not  the  kind  Nora  hopes  for,  but 
a  miracle  just  the  same. 

Nora  had  borrowed  the  money  from  Nils 
Krogstad,  a  man  with  a  siiady  past  in  the  eyes  of 
the  community  and  of  the  righteous  moralist,  Tor- 
vald Heltner.  So  long  as  Krogstad  is  allowed 
the  little  breathing  space  a  Christiai;  people 
grants  to  him  who  has  once  broken  its  laws,  he  is 
reasonably  human.  He  does  not  molest  Nora. 
But  when  Helmer  becomes  director  of  the  bank  in 
which  Krogstad  is  employed,  and  threatens  the 
man  with  dismissal,  Krogstad  naturally  fights  back. 
For  as  he  says  to  Nora:    "  If  need  be,  I  shall 


A  Doll's  House 


21 


fight  as  though  for  my  life  to  keep  my  little  place 
in  the  bank.  .  .  .  It's  not  only  for  the  money: 
that  matters  least  to  me.  It's  something  else. 
Well,  I'd  better  make  a  clean  breast  of  it.  Of 
course  you  know,  like  every  one  else,  that  some 
years  ago  I  —  got  into  trouble.  .  .  .  The  matter 
never  came  into  court;  but  from  that  moment  all 
paths  were  barred  to  me.  Then  I  took  up  the 
business  you  know  about.  I  was  obliged  to  grasp 
at  something;  and  I  don't  think  I've  been  one  of 
the  worst.  But  now  I  must  clear  out  of  it  all. 
My  sons  are  growing  up;  for  their  sake  I  must 
try  t  back  as  much  respectability  as  I  can. 

This  place  in  the  bank  was  the  first  step,  and  now 
your  husband  wants  to  kick  me  off  the ,  ladder, 
back  into  the  mire.  Mrs.  Helmer,  you  evidently 
have  no  clear  idea  what  you  have  really  done. 
But  I  can  assure  you  that  it  was  nothing  more 
and  nothing  worse  that  made  me  an  outcast  from 
society.  .  .  .  But  this  I  may  tell  you,  that  if  I'm 
flung  into  the  gutter  a  second  time,  you  shall  keep 
me  company." 

Even  when  Nora  is  confronted  with  this  awful 
threat,  she  does  not  fear  for  herself,  only  for 
Torvald, —  so  good,  so  true,  who  has  such  an 
aversion  to  debts,  but  who  loves  her  so  devotedly 
that  for  her  sake  he  would  take  the  blame  upon 
himself.  But  this  must  never  be.  Nora,  too,  be- 
gins a  fight  for  life,  for  her  husband's  life  and  that 


22 


Henrik  Ibsen 


of  her  children.  Did  not  Helmer  tell  her  that 
the  very  presence  of  a  criminal  like  Krogstad 
poisons  the  children ?  And  is  she  not  a  criminul ? 
Torvald  Helmer  assures  her,  in  his  male  con- 
ceit, that  "  early  corruption  generally  comes  from 
the  mother's  side,  but  of  course  the  father's  in- 
fluence  may  act  in  the  same  way.  And  this  Krog- 
stad  has  been  poisoning  his  own  children  for  years 
past  by  a  life  of  lies  and  hypocrisy  —  that's  why 
I  call  him  morally  ruined." 

Poor  Nora,    who   cannot   understand   why   a 
daughter  has  no  right  to  spare  her  dying  father 
anxiety,  or  why  a  wife  has  no  right  to  save  her 
husband's  life,  is  surely  not  aware  of  the  true 
character  of  her  idol.     But  gradually  the  veil  is 
lifted.     At  first,  when  in  reply  to  her  desperate 
pleading  for  Krogstad,  her  husband  discloses  the 
true  reason  for  wanting  to  get  rid  of  him :     "  The 
fact  is,  he  was  a  college  chum  of  mine —  there 
was  one  of  those  rash  friendships  between  us  that 
one  so  often  repents  later.     I  don't  mind  con- 
fessing it  — he  calls  me  by  my  Christian  name; 
and  he  insists  on  doing  it  even  when  others  are 
present.     He  delights  in  putting  on  airs  of  fa- 
miliarity —  Torvald  here,  Torvald  there  I    I  as- 
sure you  it's  most  painful  to  me.     He  would  make 
my  position  at  the  bank  perfectly  unendurable." 
And  then  again  when  the  final  blow  comes. 
For  fort>^.eight  hours  Nora  battles  for  her  ideal, 


A  Doll's  House 


«3 


never  doubting  Torvald  for  a  moment.  Indeed, 
so  absolutely  sure  is  she  of  her  strong  oak,  her 
lord,  her  god,  that  she  would  rather  kill  herself 
than  have  him  take  the  blame  for  her  act.  The 
end  cornea,  and  with  it  the  doll's  house  tumbles 
down,  and  Nora  discards  her  doll's  dress  —  she 
sheds  her  skin,  as  it  were.  Torvald  Heltner 
proves  himself  a  petty  Philistine,  a  bully  and  a 
coward,  as  so  many  good  husbands  when  they 
throw  off  their  respectable  cloak. 

Helmer's  rage  over  f^  ira's  crime  subsides  the 
moment  the  danger  of  publicity  is  averted  —  prov- 
ing that  Heltner,  like  many  a  moralist,  is  not  so 
much^  incensed  at  Nora's  offense  as  by  the  fear 
of  being  found  out.  Not  so  Nora.  Finding  out 
is  her  salvation.  It  is  then  that  she  realizes  how 
much  she  has  been  wronged,  that  she  is  only  a 
plaything,  a  doll  to  Heltner.  In  her  disillusion- 
ment she  says,  "  You  have  never  loved  me.  You 
only  thought  it  amusing  to  be  In  love  with  me.  ' 

Heltner.    Why,  Nora,  what  a  thing  to  say! 

Nora.  Yes,  it  is  so,  Torvald.  While  I  was  at  home 
with  father  he  used  to  tell  me  all  his  opinions  and  I 
held  the  same  opinions.  If  I  had  others  I  concealed  them, 
because  he  would  not  have  liked  it.  He  used  to  call  me 
his  doll  child,  and  play  with  me  as  I  played  with  my 

dolls.     Then  I  came  to  live  in  your  house ...  I 

mean  I  passed  from  father's  hands  into  yours.  You 
settled  everything  according  to  your  taste;  and  I  got  the 


24 


Henrik  Ibsen 


same  tastes  as  you;  or  I  pretended  to  — I  don't  know 
which  — both  ways  perhaps.  When  I  look  back  on  it 
now  I  seem  to  have  been  living  here  like  a  beggar,  from 
hand  to  mouth.  I  lived  by  performing  tricks  for  you* 
Torvald.  But  you  would  have  it  so.  You  and  father 
have  done  me  a  great  wrong.  It's  your  fault  that  my 
life  has  been  wasted.  ... 

Helmer.    It's  exasperating!    Can   you   forsake  your 
holiest  duties  in  this  way? 

Nora.    What  do  you  call  my  holiest  duties? 

Helmer.    Do  you  ask  me  that?    Your  duties  to  your 
husband  and  your  children. 

Nora.     I  have  other  duties  equally  sacred. 

Helmer.    Impossible!    What  duties  do  you  mean? 

Nora.    My  duties  toward  myself. 

Helmer.  Befcxe  all  else  you  are  a  wife  and  a  mother. 
f^^^'^'  That  I  no  longer  believe.  I  think  that  before 
all  else  I  am  a  human  being,  just  as  much  as  you  are 
—  or,  at  least,  I  will  try  to  become  one.  I  know  that 
most  people  agree  with  you,  Torvald,  and  that  they  say 
so  m  books.  But  henceforth  I  can't  be  satisfied  with 
what  most  people  say,  and  what  is  in  books.  I  must 
think  things  out  for  myself  and  try  to  get  clear  about 
them.  ...  I  had  been  living  here  these  eight  year?  with 
a  strange  man,  and  had  borne  him  three  children  — Oh! 
I  can't  bear  to  think  of  it  —  I  could  tear  myself  to  pieces! 
...  I  can't  spend  the  night  in  a  strange  man's  house. 

Is  there  anything  more  degrading  to  woman 
than  to  live  with  a  stranger,  and  bear  him  chil- 
dren  ?    Yet,  the  lie  of  the  marriage  institution  de- 


Ghosts 


25 


crees  that  she  shall  continue  to  do  so,  and  the 
social  conception  of  duty  insists  that  for  the  sake 
of  that  lie  she  need  be  nothing  else  than  a  play- 
thing,  a  doll,  a  nonentity. 

When  Nora  closes  behind  her  the  door  of  her 
doll's  house,  she  opens  wide  the  gate  of  life  for 
woman,  and  proclaims  the  revolutionary  message 
that  only  perfect  freedom  and  communion  make  a 
true  bond  between  man  and  woman,  meeting  in 
the  open,  without  lies,  without  shame,  free  from 
the  bondage  of  duty. 


GHOSTS 

The  social  and  revolutionary  significance  of 
Henrik  Ibsen  is  brought  out  with  even  greater 
force  in  "  Ghosts  "  than  in  his  preceding  works. 

Not  only  does  this  pioneer  of  modern  dramatic 
art  undermine  in  "  Ghosts  "  the  Social  Lie  and 
the  paralyzing  effect  of  Duty,  but  the  uselessness 
and  evil  of  Sacrifice,  the  dreary  Lack  of  Joy  and 
of  Purpose  in  Work  are  brought  to  light  as  most 
pernicious  and  destructive  elements  in  life. 

Mrs.  Alving,  having  made  what  her  family 
called  a  most  admirable  match,  discovers  shortly 
after  her  marriage  that  her  husband  is  a  drunkard 
and  a  roue.  In  her  despair  she  flees  t  '^er  young 
friend,  the  divinity  student  Manders.  But  he, 
preparing  to  save  souls,  even  though  they  be  en- 


26 


Henrik  Ibsen 


cased  In  rotten  bodies,  sends  Mrs.  /thing  back  to 
her  husband  and  her  duties  toward  her  home. 

Helen  Jiving  is  young  and  immature.  Besides, 
she  loves  young  Manders;  his  command  is  law  to 
her.  She  returns  home,  and  for  twenty-five  years 
suffers  all  the  misery  and  torture  of  the  damned. 
That  she  survives  is  due  mainly  to  her  passionate 
love  for  the  child  born  of  that  horrible  relation- 
ship —  her  boy  Oswald,  her  all  in  life.  He  must 
bo  saved  at  any  cost.  To  do  that,  she  had  sacri 
ficed  her  great  yea'rning  tor  him  and  sent  him 
away  from  the  poisonous  atmosphere  of  her  home. 

And  now  he  has  returned,  fine  and  free,  much 
to  the  disgust  of  Pastor  Manders,  whose  limited 
vision  cannot  conceive  that  out  in  the  large  world 
free  men  and  women  can  live  a  decent  and  ere 
ative  life. 

Mandrrs.  But  how  is  it  possible  that  a  —  a  young 
man  or  young  woman  with  any  decent  principles  can 
endure  to  live  in  that  way?  —  in  the  eyes  of  all  the 
world ! 

Oswahl  What  are  they  to  do?  A  poor  young  artist 
—  a  poor  girl.  It  costs  a  lot  of  money  to  get  married. 
What  are  they  to  do? 

Manders.  What  are  they  to  do?  Let  me  tell  you, 
Mr.  Alving,  what  they  ought  to  do.  They  ought  to 
exercise  self-restraint  from  the  first;  that's  what  they 
ought  to  do. 


Ghosts 


27 


Oswald.  Such  talk  as  that  won't  go  far  with  warm- 
blooded young  people,  over  head  and  ears  In  love. 

Mrs.  Alvlng.     No,  it  wouldn't  go  far. 

Menders.  How  can  the  authorities  tolerate  such 
things?  Allow  it  to  go  on  in  the  light  of  day?  (To 
Mrs.  4hing.)  Had  I  not  cause  to  be  deeply  concerned 
about  your  son?  In  circles  where  open  immorality  pre- 
vails, and  has  even  a  sort  of  prestige ! 

Oswald.  Let  me  tell  you,  sir,  that  I  have  been  a  con- 
stant Sunday-guest  in  one  or  two  such  irregular 
homes 

Manders.    On  Sunday  of  all  days! 

Oswald.  Isn't  that  the  day  to  enjoy  one's  self?  Well, 
never  have  I  heard  an  offensive  word,  and  still  less  have 
I  ever  witnessed  anything  that  could  be  called  immoral. 
No;  do  you  know  when  and  where  I  have  found  immo- 
rality in  artistic  circles? 

Manders.     No!    Thank  heaven,  I  don't! 

Oswald.  Well,  then,  allow  me  to  inform  you.  I  have 
met  with  it  when  one  or  other  of  our  pattern  husbands 
and  fathers  has  come  to  Paris  to  have  a  look  around  on 
his  own  account,  and  has  done  the  artists  the  honor  of 
visiting  their  humble  haunts.  They  knew  what  was 
what.  These  gentlemen  could  tell  us  all  about  places 
and  things  we  had  never  dreamt  of. 

Manders.  What?  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  respect- 
able men  from  home  here  would ? 

Oswald.  Have  you  never  heard  these  respectable  men, 
when  they  got  home  again,  talking  about  the  wa;  in 
which  immorality  was  running  rampant  abroad? 


'V, 


28 


Henri k  Ibsen 


Manden.    Ym,  of  course. 

Mrs.  Alving.     I  have,  too. 

Oswald.  Well,  you  tnav  take  their  word  for  it. 
They  know  what  they  are  talking  about!  Oh!  that  that 
great,  free,  glo.ious  life  out  there  should  be  defiled  in. 
such  a  way! 

Pastor  Manders  is  outraged,  and  when  Oswald 
leaves,  he  delivers  himself  of  a  tirade  against  Mrs. 
Alving  for  her  '*  irresponsible  proclivities  to  shirk 
her  duty." 

Manders.  It  is  only  the  spirit  of  rebellion  that  craves 
for  happiness  in  this  life.  What  right  have  we  human 
beings  to  happiness?  No,  we  have  to  do  our  duty! 
And  your  duty  was  to  hold  firmly  to  the  man  you  had 
once  chosen  and  to  whom  you  were  bound  by  a  holy  tie. 
...  It  was  your  duty  to  bear  with  humility  the  cross 
which  a  Higher  Pnwr  had,  for  your  own  good,  laid 
upon  you.  But  instead  of  that  you  rebclliously  cast  away 
the  cross.  ...  I  was  but  a  poor  instrument  in  a  Higher 
Hand.  And  what  a  blessing  has  it  not  been  to  you  all 
the  days  of  your  life,  that  I  got  you  to  resume  the  yoke 
of  duty  and  obedience! 

The  price  Mrs.  Alving  had  to  pay  for  her  yoke, 
her  duty  and  obedience,  staggers  even  Dr.  Man- 
ders, when  she  reveals  to  him  the  martyrdom  she 
had  endured  those  long  years. 

Mrs.  Alving.    You  have  now  spoken  out,  Pastor  Man- 
ders; and  to-morrow  you  are  to  speak  publicly  in  memory 


Ghosts 


a9 


of  my  husband.  I  shall  not  speak  to-morrow.  But  now 
I  will  speak  out  a  little  to  you,  as  you  have  spoken  to 
me.  ...  I  want  you  to  know  that  after  nineteen  years 
of  marriage  my  husband  remained  aj  dissolute  in  his  de- 
sires as  he  was  vhen  you  married  us.  After  Oswald's 
birth,  I  thought  Alving  seemed  to  be  a  little  better.  But 
it  did  not  last  long.  And  then  I  had  to  struggle  twice 
as  hard,  fighting  for  life  or  death,  so  that  nobody  should 
know  what  sort  of  a  man  my  child's  father  was.  I  had 
my  little  son  to  bear  it  for.     But  when  the  last  insult 

was  added;  when  my  own  servant-maid Then  I 

swore  to  myself:  This  shall  come  to  an  end.    And  so  I 
took  the  upper  hand  in  the  house  — the  whole  control 
over  him  and  over  everything  else.    For  now  I  had  a 
weapon  against  him,  you  see;  he  dared  not  oppose  me. 
It  was  then  that  Oswald  was  sent  from  home.     He  was 
in  his  seventh  year,  and  was  beginning  to  observe  and 
ask  questions,  as  children  do.    That  I  could  not  bear. 
I  thought  the  child  must  get  poisoned  by  merely  breath- 
ing the  air  in  this  polluted  home.    That  was  why  I 
placed  him  out.    And  now  you  can  see,  too,  why  he  was 
never  allowed  to  set  foot  inside  his  home  so  long  as  his 
father  lived.     No  one  knows  what  it  has  cost  me.  .  .  . 
From  the  day  after  to-morrow  it  shall  be  for  me  a^ 
though  he  who  is  dead  had  never  lived  in  this  house. 
No  one  shall  be  here  but  my  boy  and  his  mother.     (From 
within  the  dining-room  comes  the  noise  of  a  chair  over- 
turned, end  at  the  same  moment  is  heard:) 

Regina  {sharply,  but  whispering) .     Oswald !  take  care ! 
are  you  mad?  let  me  go! 

Mrs.    Alving    {starts    in    terror).    Ah!     {She   stares   ' 


I. 


30 


Henri k  Ibsen 


wildly  toward  the  half -opened  d-^nr.     Oswald  is   heard 
coughing  and  humming  inside 

Manders  (excited).  Wha',  in  the  v.ortf'  is  the  mat- 
ter?   What  is  it,  Mrs.  Alvin/? 

Mrs.  Jiving   (hoarsely).     Gnosis;     T'le  couple  from> 
the  conservatory  has  risen  again! 

Ghosts,  Indeed !  Mrs.  Jiving  sees  this  but  toa 
clearly  when  she  discovers  that  though  she  did  not 
want  Oswald  to  Inherit  a  single  penny  from  the 
purchase  money  Captain  Ahnng  had  paid  for  her, 
all  her  sacrifice  did  not  save  Oswald  from  the 
poisoned  heritage  of  his  father.  She  learns  soon 
enough  that  her  beloved  boy  had  Inherited  a  terri- 
ble disease  from  his  father,  as  a  result  of  which  he 
will  never  again  be  able  to  work.  She  also  finds 
out  that,  for  all  her  freedom,  she  has  remained  In 
the  clutches  of  Ghosts,  and  that  she  has  fostered 
in  Oswald's  mind  an  Ideal  of  his  father,  the  more 
terrible  because  of  her  own  loathing  for  the  man. 
Too  late  she  realizes  her  fatal  mistake : 

Mrs.  Alving.  I  ought  never  to  have  concealed  the 
facts  of  Alving's  life.  But  ...  in  my  superstitious  awe 
for  Duty  and  Decency  I  lied  to  my  boy,  year  after  year. 
Oh!  what  a  coward,  what  a  coward  I  have  been!  .  .  . 
Ghosts!  When  I  heard  Regina  and  Oswald  in  there, 
it  was  as  though  I  saw  the  Ghosts  before  me.  But  I 
almost  think  we  are  all  of  us  Ghosts,  Pastor  Manders. 
It  is  not  only  what  we  have  inherited  from  our  father 
and  mother  that  "  walks  "  in  us.     It  is  all  sorts  of  dead 


Ghosts 


31 


ideas,  and  lifeless  old  beliefs,  and  so  forth.  They  have 
no  vitality,  but  they  cling  to  us  all  the  same,  and  we 
can't  get  rid  of  them.  .  .  .  There  must  be  Ghosts  all 
the  country  over,  as  thick  as  the  sand  of  the  sea.  And 
then  we  are,  one  and  all,  so  pitifully  afraid  of  the  light. 
.  .  .  When  you  forced  me  under  the  yoke  you  called 
Duty  and  Obligation;  when  you  praised  as  right  and 
proper  what  my  whole  soul  rebelled  against,  as  some- 
thing loathsome.  It  was  then  that  I  began  to  look  into 
the  seams  of  your  doctrine.  I  only  wished  to  pick  at  a 
single  knot;  but  when  I  had  got  that  undone,  the  whole 
thing  ravelled  out.  And  then  I  understood  that  it  was 
all  machine-sewn.  ...  It  was  a  crime  against  us  both. 

Indeed,  a  crime  on  which  the  sacred  institution 
is  built,  and  for  which  thousands  of  innocent  chil- 
dren must  pay  with  their  happiness  and  life,  while 
their  mothers  continue  to  the  very  end  without 
ever  learning  how  hideously  criminal  their  life  is. 

Not  so  Mrs.  Alving  who,  though  at  a  terrible 
price,  works  herself  out  to  the  truth;  aye,  even  to 
the  height  of  understanding  the  dissolute  life  of 
the  father  of  her  child,  who  had  lived  in  cramped 
provincial  surroundings,  and  could  find  no  purpose 
in  life,  no  outlet  for  his  exuberance.  It  is  through 
her  child,  through  Oswald,  that  all  this  becomes 
illumed  to  her. 


Oswald.     Ah,  the  joy  of  life,  mother;  that's  a  thing 
you   don't   know   much   about   in    these   parts.     I    have 

.  And  then,  too,  the  joy  of  work. 


never  felt  it  here. 


32 


Henrtk  Ibsen 


At  bottom,  it's  the  same  thing.  But  that  too  you  know 
nothing  about.  .  .  .  Here  people  are  brought  up  to  be- 
lieve that  work  is  a  curse  and  a  punishment  for  sin,  and 
that  life  is  something  miserable,  something  we  want  to 
be  done  with,  the  sooner  the  better.  .  .  .  Have  you 
noticed  that  everything  I  have  painted  has  turned  upon^ 
the  joy  of  life?  always,  always  upon  the  joy  of  life?  — 
light  and  sunshine  and  glorious  air,  and  faces  radiant 
with  happiness?  That  is  why  I  am  afraid  of  remaining 
at  home  with  you. 

Mrs.  Alving.  Oswald,  you  spoke  of  the  jo/  of  life; 
and  at  that  word  a  new  light  burst  for  me  over  my  life 
and  all  it  has  contained.  .  .  .  You  ought  to  have  known 
your  father  when  he  was  a  young  lieutenant.  He  was 
brimming  over  with  the  joy  of  life!  ...  He  had  no 
object  in  life,  but  only  an  official  position.  He  had  no 
work  into  which  he  could  throw  himself  heart  and  soul ; 
he  had  only  business.  He  h^^^  not  a  single  comrade  thr. 
knew  what  the  joy  of  life  —only  loafers  and  boon 

companions .  .  .  So  i.  i      -ppened  which  was  sure 

to  happen.  .  .  .  Oswald,  my  dear  boy;  has  it  shaken 
you  very  much? 

Oswald.  Of  course  it  came  upon  me  as  a  great  sur- 
prise, but,  after  all,  it  can't  matter  much  to  me. 

Mrs.  Alving.  Can't  matter!  That  your  father  was 
so  infinitely  miserable! 

Oswald.  Of  course  I  can  pity  him  as  I  would  any- 
body else;  but 

Mrs.  Alving.     Nothing  more?    Your  own  father! 

Oswald.    Oh,  there!    "  Father,"  "  father  " !    I  never 


Ghosts 


33 


knew  anything  of  father.  I  don't  remember  anything 
about  him  except  —  that  he  once  made  me  sick. 

Mrs.  Jiving.  That's  a  terrible  way  to  speak! 
Should  not  a  son  love  his  father,  all  the  same? 

Oswald.  When  a  son  has  nothing  to  thank  his  father 
for?  has  never  known  him?  Do  you  really  cling  to  the 
old  superstition?  — you  who  are  so  enlightened  in  other 
ways? 

Mrs.  Jiving.     Is  that  only  a  superstition? 

In  truth,  a  superstition  —  one  that  is  kept  like 
the  sword  of  Damocles  over  the  child  who  does 
not  ask  to  be  given  life,  and  is  yet  tied  with  a 
thousand  chains  to  those  who  bring  him  into  a 
cheerless,  joyless,  and  wretched  world. 

The  voice  of  Henrik  Ibsen  in  "  Ghosts  "  sounds 
like  the  trumpets  before  the  walls  of  Jericho. 
Into  the  remotest  nooks  and  corners  reaches  his 
voice,  with  its  thundering  indictment  of  our  moral 
cancers,  our  social  poisons,  our  hideous  crimes 
against  unborn  and  born  victims.  Verily  a  more 
revolutionary  condemnation  has  never  been  ut- 
tered In  dramatic  form  before  or  since  the  great 
Henrik  Ibsen. 

We  need,  therefore,  not  be  surprised  at  the  vile 
abuse  and  denunciation  heaped  upon  Ibsen's  head 
by  the  Church,  the  State,  and  other  moral  eunuchs. 
But  the  spirit  of  Henrik  Ibsen  could  not  be 


i  -i. 
4: 


i 


34 


Henrik  Ibsen 


daunted.  It  asserted  itself  with  even  greater  de- 
fiance in  "  An  Enemy  of  Society," —  a  powerful 
arraignment  of  the  political  and  economic  Lie, 
—  Ibsen's  own  confession  of  faith. 


AN  ENEMY  OF  SOCIETY 

Dr.  Thomas  Stockmann  is  called  to  the  po- 
sition of  medical  adviser  to  the  management  of 
the  "  Baths,"  the  main  resource  of  his  native  town. 

A  sincere  man  of  high  ideals,  Dr.  Stockmann 
returns  home  after  an  absence  of  many  years,  full 
of  the  spirit  of  enterprise  and  progressive  inno- 
vation. For  as  he  says  to  his  brother  Peter,  the 
town  Burgomaster,  "  I  am  so  glad  and  content. 
I  feel  so  unspeakably  happy  in  the  midst  of  all 
this  growing,  germinating  life.  After  all,  what  a 
glorious  time  we  do  live  in.  It  is  as  if  a  new 
world  were  springing  up  around  us." 

Burgomaster.     Do  you  really  think  so? 

Dr.  Stockmann.  Well,  of  course,  you  can't  see  this 
as  clearly  as  I  do.  You've  spent  all  your  life  in  this 
place,  and  so  your  perceptions  have  been  dulled.  But  I, 
who  had  to  live  up  there  in  that  small  hole  in  the  north 
all  those  years,  hardly  ever  seeing  a  soul  to  speak  a 
stimulating  word  to  me  —  all  this  affects  me  as  if  I  were 
carried  to  the  midst  of  a  crowded  city  —  I  know  well 
enough  that  the  conditions  of  life  are  small  compared 
with  many  other  towns.     But  here  is  life,  growth,  an 


An  Enemy  of  Society 


35 


infinity  of  things  to  work  for  and  to  strive  for;  and  that 
is  the  main  point. 

In  this  spirit  Dr.  Stockmann  sets  to  his  task. 
After  two  years  of  careful  investigation,  he  finds 
that  the  Baths  are  built  on  a  swamp,  full  of  poi- 
sonous germs,  and  that  people  who  come  there  for 
their  health  will  be  infected  with  fever. 

Thomas  Stockmann  is  a  conscientious  physician. 
He  loves  his  native  town,  but  he  loves  his 
fellow-men  more.  He  considers  it  his  duty  to 
communicate  his  discovery  to  the  highest  authority 
of  the  town,  the  Burgomaster,  his  brother  Peter 
Stockmann. 

Dr.  Stockmann  is  indeed  an  Idealist;  else  he 
would  know  that  the  man  is  often  lost  in  the  of- 
ficial. Besides,  Peter  Stockmann  is  also  the 
president  of  the  board  of  directors  and  one  of  the 
heaviest  stockholders  of  the  Baths.  Sufficient  rea- 
son to  upbraid  his  reckless  medical  brother  as  a 
dangerous  man : 

Burgomaster.  Anyhow,  you've  an  ingrained  propen- 
sity for  going  your  own  way.  And  that  in  a  well-or- 
dered community  is  almost  as  dangerous.  The  individual 
must  submit  himself  to  the  whole  community,  or,  to  speak 
m  correctly,  bow  to  the  authority  that  watches  over 
the  welfare  of  all. 

But  the  Doctor  is  not  disconcerted:  Peter  is 
an  official;  he  is  not  concerned  with  ideals.     But 


36 


Henrik  Ibsen 


there  is  the  press, —  that  is  the  medium  for  his 
purpose  I  The  staff  of  the  People's  Messenger 
—  Hovstad,  Billings,  and  Aslaksen,  are  deeply 
impressed  by  the  Doctor's  discovery.  With  one 
eye  to  good  copy  and  the  other  to  the  political 
chances,  they  immediately  put  the  People's  Mes- 
senger at  the  disposal  of  Thomas  Stockmann. 
Hovstad  sees  great  possibilities  for  a  thorough 
radical  reform  of  the  whole  life  of  the  commun- 
ity. ' 

Hovstad.  To  you,  as  a  doctor  and  a  man  of  science, 
this  business  of  the  water-works  ilj^  isolated  affair. 
I  fancy  it  hasn't  occurred  to  you  that  a  good  many  other 
things  are  connected  with  it.  .  .  .  The  swamp  our  whole 
municipal  life  stands  and  rots  in.  ...  I  think  a  journal- 
ist assumes  an  immense  responsibility  when  he  neglects 
an  opportunity  of  aiding  the  masses,  the  poor,  the  op- 
pressed. I  know  well  enough  that  the  upper  classes  will 
call  this  stirring  up  the  people,  and  so  forth,  but  they  can 
do  as  they  please,  if  only  my  conscience  is  clear. 

Aslaksen,  printer  of  the  People's  Messenger, 
chairman  of  the  Householders'  Association,  and 
agent  for  the  Moderation  Society,  has,  like  Hov- 
stad, a  keen  eye  to  business.  He  assures  the 
Doctor  of  his  whole-hearted  cooperation,  espe- 
cially emphasizing  that,  "  It  might  do  you  no  harm 
to  have  us  middle-class  men  at  your  back.  We 
now  form  a  compact  majority  in  the  town  — 
when  we  really  make  up  our  minds  to.     And  it's 


An  Enemy  of  Society  37 

always  as  well,  Doctor,  to  have  the  majority  with 
you.  .  .  .  And  so  I  think  it  wouldn't  be  amiss  if 
we  made  some  sort  of  a  demonstration.  ...  Of 
course  with  great  moderation,  Doctor.  I  am  al- 
ways in  favor  of  moderation;  for  moderation  is  a 
citizen's  first  virtue  —  at  least  those  are  my  senti- 
ments." 

Truly,  Dr.  Stockmann  is  an  idealist;  else  he 
would  not  plac  so  much  faith  in  the  staff  of  the 
People's  Messenger,  who  love  the  people  so  well 
that  they  constantly  feed  them  with  high-sounding 
phrases  of  democratic  principles  and  of  the  noble 
function  of  the  press,  while  they  pilfer  their  pock- 
ets. 

That  is  expressed  in  Hovstad's  own  words, 
when  Petra,  the  daughter  of  Dr.  Stockmann,  re- 
turns a  sentimental  novel  she  was  to  translate  for 
the  People's  Messenger:  "This  can't  possibly 
go  Into  the  Messenger,"  she  tells  Hovstad;  "  it  is 
in  direct  contradiction  to  your  own  opinion." 

Hovstad.    Well,  but  for  the  sake  of  tht  cause  — 

Petra.  You  don't  understand  me  yet.  It  is  all  about 
a  supernatural  power  that  looks  after  the  so-called  good 
people  here  on  earth,  and  turns  all  things  to  their  ad- 
vantage at  last,  and  all  the  bad  people  are  punished. 

Hovstad.  Yes,  but  that's  very  fine.  It's  the  very 
thing  the  public  like. 

Petra.  And  would  you  supply  the  public  with  such 
stuff?    Why,  you  don't  believe  one  word  of  it  yourself. 


in 


f 


38 


Henrik  Ibsen 


\  ow  know  well  enough  that  things  don't  really  happen 
like  that. 

Hovstad.  You're  right  there;  but  an  editor  can't 
always  do  as  he  likes.  He  often  has  to  yield  to  public 
opinion  in  small  matters.  After  all,  politics  is  the  chiefs 
thing  in  life  — at  any  rate  for  a  newspaper;  and  if  I 
want  the  people  to  follow  me  along  the  path  of  emanci- 
pation and  progress,  I  mustn't  scare  them  away.  If  t..ey 
find  such  a  moral  story  down  in  the  cellar,  they're  much 
more  willing  to  stand  what  is  printed  above  it— they 
feel  themselves  safer.  ' 

Editors  of  the  stamp  of  Hovstad  seldom  dare 
to  express  their  real  opinions.  They  cannot  af- 
ford to  "  scare  away  "  their  readers.  They  gen- 
erally yield  to  the  most  ignorant  and  vulgar  public 
opinion;  they  do  not  set  themselves  up  against 
constituted  authority.  Therefore  the  People's 
Messenger  drops  the  "  greatest  man  "  in  town 
when  it  learns  that  the  Burgomaster  and  the  influ- 
ential citizens  are  determined  that  the  truth  shall 
be  silenced.  The  Burgomaster  soundly  de- 
nounces his  brother's  "  rebellion." 

Burgomaster.  The  public  doesn't  need  new  ideas. 
The  public  is  best  served  by  the  good  old  recognized 
ideas  that  they  have  already.  ...  As  an  official,  you've 
no  right  to  have  any  individual  conviction. 

Dr.  Stockmann.  The  source  is  poisoned,  man!  Are 
you  mad?  We  live  by  trafficking  in  filth  and  garbage. 
The  whole  of  our  developing  social  life  is  rooted  in  a  lie! 


An  Enemy  of  Society 


39 

BurgomasUr.  Idle  fancies  — or  somcthmg  worse. 
Tht  man  who  makes  such  offensive  insinuations  against 
his  own  nat-  »  place  must  be  an  enemy  of  society. 

Dr.  Stockmann.  And  I  must  bear  such  treatment! 
In  my  own  house.     Katrine!     What  do  you  think  of  it? 

Mrs.  Stockmann.     Indeed,  it  is  a  shame  and  an  insult, 

Thomas .  .  .  But,  after  all,  your  brother  has  the 

power 

Dr.  Stockmann.     Yes,  but  I  have  the  right! 

Mrs.  Stockmann.  Ah,  yes,  right,  right!  What  is  the 
good  of  being  rf-ht  when  you  haven't  any  might? 

Dr.  Stockmann.  What!  No  good  in  a  free  society  to 
have  right  on  your  side?  You  are  absurd,  Katrine.  And 
besides,  haven't  I  the  free  and  independent  press  with  me? 
The  compact  majority  behind  me?  That's  might  enough, 
I  should  think! 

Katrine  Stockmann  is  wiser  than  her  husband. 
For  he  who  has  no  might  need  hope  for  no  right. 
The  good  Doctor  has  to  drink  the  bitter  cup  to  the 
last  drop  before  he  realizes  the  wisdom  of  his 
wife. 

Threatened  by  the  authorities  and  repudiated 
by  the  People's  Messenger,  Dr.  Stockmann  at- 
tempts to  secure  a  hall  wherein  to  hold  a  public 
meeting.  A  free-born  citizen,  he  believes  in  the 
Constitution  and  it3  guarantees;  he  is  determined 
to  maintain  his  right  of  free  expression.  But  like 
so  many  otherS:  even  most  advanced  liberals 
blinded  by  the  spook  of  constitutional  rights  and 


40 


Henrik  Ibsen 


free  speech,  Dr.  Stocktnann  inevitably  has  to  pay 
the  penalty  of  his  credulity.  He  finds  every  hall 
in  town  closed  against  him.  Only  one  solitary 
citizen  has  the  courage  to  open  his  doors  to  the 
persecuted  Doctor,— his  old  friend  Horster. 
But  the  mob  follows  him  even  there  and  howls 
him  down  as  an  enemy  of  society.  Thomas 
Stocktnann  makes  the  discovery  in  his  battle  with 
ignorance,  stupidity,  and  vested  interests  that  "  the 
most  dangerous  enemies  of  truth  and  freedom  in 
our  midst  are  the  compact  majority,  the  damned 
compact  liberal  majority."  His  experiences  lead 
him  to  the  conclusion  that  "  the  majority  is  never 
right.  .  .  .  That  is  one  of  those  conventional  lies 
against  which  a  free,  thoughtful  man  must  rebel. 
.  .  .  The  majority  has  might  unhappily  —  but 
right  it  has  not." 

Hox  '  '  The  man  who  would  ruin  a  whole  com- 
munity      ust  be  an  enemy  of  society! 

Dr.  Stockmann.  It  doesn't  matter  if  a  lying  com- 
munity is  ruined!  .  .  .  You'll  poison  the  whole  country 
in  time;  you  will  bring  it  to  such  a  pass  that  the  whole 
country  will  deserve  to  perish.  And  should  it  come  to 
this,  I  say,  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart:  Perish  the 
country!     Perish  all  its  people! 

Driven  out  of  the  place,  hooted  and  jeered  by 
the  mob,  Dr.  Stockmann  barely  escapes  with  his 
life,  and  seeks  safety  in  his  home,  only  to  find 


An  Enemy  of  Society  41 

everything  demolished  there.     In  due  time  he  is 
repudiated  by  the  grocer,  the  baker,  and  the  can- 
dlestick maker.     The  landlord,  of  course,  is  very 
sorry   for   him.     The   Stockmanns   have   always 
paid  their  rent  regularly,  but  it  would  injure  his 
reputation  to  have  such  an  avowed  rebel  for  a 
tenant.     The  grocer  is  sorry,  and  the  butcher, 
too;  but  they  can  not  jeopardize  their  business. 
Finally  the  uoard  of  education  sends    xpressions 
of  regret:     Petra  is  an  excellent  teacher  and  the 
boys  of  Stockmann  splendid  pupils,  but  it  would 
contaminate  the  other  children  were  the  Stock- 
manns allowed  to  remain  at  school.     And  again 
Dr.  Stockmann  learns  a  vital  lesson.     But  he  will 
not  submit;  he  will  be  strong. 

Dr.  Stockmann.  Should  I  let  myself  be  beaten  off  the 
^'Id  by  public  opinion,  and  the  compact  majority,  and 
such  deviltry?  No,  thanks.  Besides,  what  I  want  is  so 
simple,  so  clear  and  straightforward.  I  only  want  to 
drive  into  the  heads  of  these  curs  that  the  Liberals  are 
the  worst  foes  of  free  men ;  that  party-programmes  wring 
the  necks  of  all  young  living  trut...;  that  considerations 
of  expediency  turn  morality  and  righteousness  upside 
down,  until  life  is  simply  hideous.  ...  I  don't  see  any 
man  free  and  brave  enough  to  dare  the  Truth.  .  .  .  The 
strongest  man  is  he  who  stands  most  alone. 

A  confession  of  faith,  indeed,  because  Henrik 
Ibsen,  although  recognized  as  a  great  dramatic 


i. 


42 


Henrik  Ibsen 


artist,  remained  alone  in  his  stand  as  a  revolution- 
ist. 

His  dramatic  art,  without  his  glorious  rebellion 
against  every  authoritative  institution,  against 
every  social  and  moral  lie,  against  every  vestige 
of  bondage,  were  inconceivable.  Just  as  his  art 
would  lose  human  significance,  were  his  love  of 
truth  and  freedom  lacking.  Already  in  *'  Brand," 
Henrik  Ibsen  demanded  all  or  nothing,  no  weak- 
kneed  moderation, —  no  compromise  of  any  sort  in 
the  struggle  for  the  ideal.  His  proud  defiance, 
his  enthusiastic  daring,  his  utter  Indifference  to 
consequences,  are  Henrik  Ibsen's  bugle  call,  her- 
alding a  new  dawn  and  the  birth  of  a  new  race. 


\ 


% 


STRINDBERG 


4« 


T 


HE  reproach  was  levellcvl  aj^ainst  my 
tragedy,  The  I'ather,'  that  it  was 
so  sad,  as  though  one  wanted  merry 
tragedies.  People  clamour  for  the 
joy  of  life,  and  the  theatrical  managers  order 
farces,  as  though  the  joy  of  life  consisted  in  being 
foolish,  and  in  describing  people  as  if  they  were 
each  and  all  afflicted  with  St.  Vitus's  dance  or 
idiocy.  I  find  the  joy  of  life  in  the  powerful, 
cruel  struggle  of  life,  and  my  enjoyment  in  dis- 
covering something,  in  learning  something." 

7'he  passionate  desire  to  discover  something, 
to  learn  something,  has  made  of  August  Strind- 
berg  a  keen  dissector  of  souls.  Above  all,  of  his 
own  soul. 

Surely  there  is  no  figure  in  contemporary  litera- 
ture, outside  of  Tolstoy,  that  laid  bare  the  most 
secret  nooks  and  corners  of  his  own  soul  with  the 
sincerity  of  August  Strindberg.  One  so  relent- 
lessly honest  with  himself,  could  be  no  less  with 
others. 

That  explains  the  bitter  opposition  and  hatred 
of  his  critics.  They  did  not  object  so  much  to 
Strindberg's  self-torture;  but  that  he  should  have 

43 


m 


44 


Strindberg 


dared  to  torture  them,  to  hold  up  his  searching 
mirror  to  their  sore  spots,  that  they  could  not 
forgive. 

Especially  is  this  true  of  woman.     For  cen- 
turies she  has  been  lulled  into  a  trance  by  the  songs 
of  the  troubadours  who  paid  homage  to  her  good-^ 
ness.  her  sweetness,  her  selflessness  and,  above  all 
her  noble  motherhood.    And  though  she  is  begin^ 
ning  to  appreciate  that  all  this  incense  has  be- 
fogged  her  mind  and  paralyzed  her  soul,  she  hates 
to  give  up  the  tribute  laid  at  her  feet  by  senti- 
mental  moonshiners  of  the  past. 

To  be  sure,  it  is  rude  to  turn  on  the  full  search- 
ight  upon  a  painted  face.     But  how  is  one  to 
know  what  IS  back  of  the  paint  and  artifice  ?     Au- 
gust Strindberg  hated  artifice  with  all  the  passion 
of  his  being;  hence  his  severe  criticism  of  woman, 
l^erhaps  it  was  his  tragedy  to  see  her  as  she  really 
IS,  and  not  as  she  appears  in  her  trance.     To  love 
with  open  eyes  is,  indeed,  a  tragedy,  and  Strind- 
berg loved  woman.    All  his  life  long  he  yearned 
for  her  love,  as  mother,  as  wife,  as  companion. 
But  h.s  longing  for,  and  his  need  of  her,  were  the 
crucible  of  Strmdberg,  as  they  have  been  the  cruci- 

,  °      .  '7  "'^"'  ^^^"  of  the  mightiest  spirit. 
Wh,  It  is  so  is  best  expressed  in  the  words  of 
the    old    nurse,    Margret,    in    "The    Father": 
Because  all  you  men,  great  and  small,  are  worn- 
an  s  children,  every  man  of  you." 


n 


The  Father 


45 


The  child  in  man  —  and  the  greater  the  man 
the  more  dominant  the  child  in  him —  has  ever 
succumbed  to  the  Earth  Spirit,  Woman,  and  as 
long  as  that  is  her  only  drawing  power,  Man, 
with  all  his  strength  and  genius,  will  ever  be  at  her 
feet. 

The  Earth  Spirit  is  motherhood  carrying  the 
race  in  its  womb;  the  flame  of  life  luring  the 
moth,  often  against  its  will,  to  destruction. 

In  all  of  Strindberg's  plays  we  see  the  flame 
of  life  at  work,  ravishing  man's  brain,  consuming 
man  s  faith,  rousing  man's  passion.  Always,  al- 
ways the  flame  of  life  is  drawing  its  victims  with 
irresistible  force.  August  Strindberg's  arraign- 
ment  of  that  force  is  at  the  same  time  a  confes- 
sion of  faith.  He,  too,  was  the  child  of  woman, 
and  utterly  helpless  before  her. 


;,    ! 


% 


THE  FATHER 

"  The  Father  "  portrays  the  tragedy  of  a  man 
and  a  woman  struggling  for  the  possession  of  their 
child.  The  father,  a  cavalry  captain,  is  intel- 
lectual, a  freethinker,  a  man  of  ideas.  His  wife 
is  narrow,  selfish,  and  unscrupulous  in  her  methods 
when  her  antagonism  is  wakened. 

Other  members  of  the  family  are  the  wife's 
mother,  a  Spiritualist,  and  the  Captain's  old  nurse, 
Margret,  ignorant  and  superstitious.     The  father 


46 


Strindberg 


! 


feels  that  the  child  would  be  poisoned  in  such  an 
atmosphere : 

The  Captain.  This  house  is  full  of  women  who  all 
want  to  have  their  say  about  my  child.  My  mother-in- 
law  wants  to  make  a  Spiritualist  of  her.  Laura  wants 
her  to  be  an  artist;  the  governess  wants  her  to  be  a 
Methodist,  old  Margret  a  Baptist,  and  the  servant-girls 
want  her  to  join  the  Salvation  Army!  It  won't  do  to 
try  to  make  a  soul  in  patches  like  that.  I,  who  have  the 
chief  right  to  try  to  form  her  character,  am  constantly 
opposed  in  my  efforts.  And  that's  why  I  have  decided 
to  send  her  away  from  home. 

But  it  is  not  only  because  the  Captain  does  not 
believe  in  "  making  a  soul  in  patches,"  that  he 
wants  to  rescue  the  child  from  the  hot-house  en- 
vironment, nor  because  he  plans  to  make  her  an 
image  of  himself.  It  is  rather  because  he  wants 
her  to  grow  up  with  a  healthy  outlook  on  life. 

The  Captain.  I  don't  want  to  be  a  procurer  for  my 
daughter  and  educate  her  exclusively  for  matrimony,  for 
then  if  she  were  left  unmarried  she  might  have  bitter 
days.  On  the  other  hand,  I  don't  want  to  influence  her 
toward  a  career  that  requires  a  long  course  of  training 
which  would  be  entirely  thrown  away  if  she  should 
marry.  I  want  her  to  be  a  teacher.  If  she  remains  un- 
married she  w'xW  be  able  to  support  herself,  and  at  any 
rate  she  wouldn't  be  any  worse  off  than  the  poor  school- 
masters who  have  to  share  their  salaries  with  a  family. 


The  Father 


47 


If  she  marries  she  can  use  her  knowledge  in  the  educa- 
tion of  her  children. 

While  the  father's  love  is  concerned  with  the 
development  of  the  child,  that  of  the  mother  is 
mterested  mainly  in  the  possession  of  the  child. 
Therefore  she  fights  the  man  with  every  means 
at  her  command,  even  to  the  point  of  instilling  the 
poison  of  doubt  into  his  mind,  by  hints  that  he  is 
not  the  father  of  the  child.  Not  only  does  she 
seek  to  drive  her  husband  mad,  but  through  skillful 
intrigue  she  leads  every  one,  including  the  Doc- 
tor, to  believe  that  he  is  actually  insane.  Finally 
even  the  old  nurse  is  induced  to  betray  him:  she 
slips  the  straitjacket  over  him,  adding  the  last 
touch  to  the  treachery.  Uobbed  of  his  faith, 
broken  in  spirit  and  subdued,  the  Captain  dies  a 
victim  of  the  Earth  Spirit  —  of  moth^jrhood, 
which  slays  the  man  for  the  sake  of  the  child. 
Laura  herself  will  have  it  so  when  she  tells  her 
husband,  "  You  have  fulfilled  your  function  as 
an  unfortunately  necessary  father  and  breadwin- 
ner. You  are  not  needed  any  longer,  and  you 
must  go." 

Critics  have  pronounced  "  The  Father "  an 
aberration  of  Strindberg's  mind,  utterly  false  and 
distorted.  But  that  is  because  they  hate  to  face 
the  truth.  In  Strindberg,  however,  the  truth  is 
his  most  revolutionary  significance. 


48 


I     ' 


I 


.1 


Strindberg 


M  I  u     T    '  .   '°"^''"'    '^°    ^^S'C    truths. 
Motherhood,  much  praised,  poetized,  and  hailed 
as  a  wonderful  thing,  is  in  reality  very  often  the 
greatest  deterrent  influence  in  the  life  of  the  child 
Because  it  is  not  primarily  concerned  with  the  po^ 
tentiahties  of  character  and  growth  of  the  child- 
on  the  contrary,  it  is  interested  chiefly  in  the  birth- 
giver,— that    is,    the    mother.     Therefore,    the 
mother  is  the  most  subjective,  self-centered  and 
conservative  obstacle.     She  binds  the  child  to  her- 
self with  a  thousand  threads  which  never  grant 
sufficient  freedom   for  mental  and  spiritual   ex- 
pansion.    It  IS  not  necessary  to  be  as  bitter  as 
Strindberg  to  realize  this.    There  are  of  course 
exceptional  mothers  who  continue  to  grow  with 
the  child.     But  the  average  mother  is  like  the  hen 
with  her  brood,  forever  fretting  about  her  chicks 
It  they  venture  a  step  away  from  the  coop.     The 
mother    enslaves    with    kindness,- a    bondage 
harder  to  bear  and  more  difficuu  .     ^scape  than 
the  brutal  fist  of  the  father. 

Strindberg  himself  experienced  it,  and  nearly 
every  one  who  has  ever  attempted  to  outgrow  the 
soul  strings  of  the  mother. 

In  portraying  motherhood,  as  it  really  is,  Au- 
gust Strindberg  is  conveying  a  vital  and  revolu- 
tionary message,  namely,  that  true  motherhood 
even  as  fatherhood,  does  not  consist  in  molding 
the  child  according  to  one's  image,  or  in  imposing 


The  Father 


49 


upon  it  one's  own  Ideas  and  notions,  but  in  allow- 
ing the  child  freedom  and  opportunity  to  grow 
harmoniously  according  to  its  own  potentialities, 
unhampered  and  unmarred. 

The  child  was  August  Strindberg's  religion,— 
perhaps  because  of  his  own  very  tragic  childhood 
and  youth.  He  was  like  Father  Time  in  "  Jude 
the  Obscure,"  a  giant  child,  and  as  he  has  Laura 
say  of  the  Captain  in  "  The  Father,"  "  he  had 
either  come  too  early  Into  the  world,  or  perhaps 
was  not  wanted  at  all." 

^^  "  Yes,  that's  how  it  was,"  the  Captain  replies, 
*my  father's  and  my  mother's  will  was  against 
my  coming  into  the  world,  and  consequently  I 
was  born  without  a  will." 

The  horror  of  having  been  brought  Into  the 
world  undeslred  and  unloved,  stamped  Its  Indeli- 
ble mark  on  August  Strindberg.  It  never  left 
him.  Nor  did  fear  and  hunger  —  the  two  ter- 
rible phantoms  of  his  childhood. 

Indeed,  the  child  was  Strindberg's  religion,  his 
faith,  his  passion.  Is  it  then  surprising  that  he 
should  have  resented  woman's  attitude  towards 
the  man  as  a  mere  means  to  the  child;  or.  In  the 
words  of  Laura,  as  "  the  function  of  father  and 
breadwinner"?  That  this  is  the  attitude  of 
woman,  is  of  course  denied.  But  It  is  neverthe- 
less true.  It  holds  good  not  only  of  the  average, 
unthinkmg  woman,  but  even  of  many  feminists  of 


wi 


so 


Strindberg 


' 


I? 


to-day;  and,  no  doubt,  they  were  even  more  an- 
tagonistic to  the  male  in  Strindberg's  time. 

It  is  only  too  true  that  woman  is  paying  back 
what  she  has  endured  for  centuries  —  humiliation, 
subjection,  and  bondage.  But  making  oneself 
free  through  the  enslavement  of  another,  is  by 
no  means  a  step  toward  advancement.  Woman 
must  grow  to  understand  that  the  father  is  as  vital 
a  factor  in  the  life  of  the  child  as  is  the  mother. 
Such  a  realization  iwould  help  very  much  to  mini- 
mize the  conflict  between  the  sexes. 

Of  course,  that  is  not  the  only  cause  of  the 
conflict.  There  is  another,  as  expressed  by  Laura: 
•'  Do  you  remember  when  I  first  came  into  your 
life,  I  was  like  a  second  mother?  ...  I  loved  you 
as  my  child.  But  .  .  .  when  the  nature  of  your 
feelings  changed  and  you  appeared  as  my  lover, 
I  blushed,  and  your  embraces  were  joy  that  was 
followed  by  remorseful  conscience  as  if  my  blood 
were  ashamed." 

The  vile  thought  instilled  into  woman  by  the 
Church  and  Puritanism  that  sex  expression  without 
the  purpose  of  procreation  is  immoral,  has  been  a 
most  degrading  influence.  It  has  poisoned  the 
life  of  thousands  of  women  who  similarly  suffer 
"remorseful  conscience";  therefore  their  disgust 
and  hatred  of  the  man;  therefore  also  the  conflict. 
Must  it  always  be  thus  ?  Even  Strindberg  does 
not  think  so.     Else  he  would  not  plead  in  behalf 


Countess  Julie 


S> 


of  "  divorce  between  man  and  wife,  so  that  lovers 
m?.y  be  born."  He  felt  that  until  man  and  woman 
cease  to  have  *'  remorseful  consciences  "  because 
of  the  most  elemental  expression  of  the  joy  of 
life,  they  cannot  realize  the  purity  and  beauty  of 
sex,  nor  appreciate  its  ecstasy,  as  the  source  of 
full  understanding  and  creative  harmony  betu'een 
male  and  female.  Till  then  man  and  woman  must 
remain  in  conflict,  and  the  child  pay  the  penalty. 
August  Strindberg,  as  one  of  the  numberless 
innocent  victims  of  this  terrible  conflict,  cries  out 
bitterly  against  it,  with  the  artistic  genius  and 
strength  that  compel  attention  to  the  significance 
of  his  message. 


COUNTESS  JULIE 

In  his  masterly  preface  to  this  play,  August 
Strindberg  writes:  "The  fact  that  my  tragedy 
makes  a  sad  impression  on  many  is  the  fault  of 
the  many.  When  we  become  strong,  as  were  the 
first  French  revolutionaries,  it  will  make  an  ex- 
clusively pleasant  and  cheerful  impression  ••o  see 
the  royal  parks  cleared  of  rotting,  superannuated 
trees  which  have  too  long  stood  in  the  way  of 
others  with  equal  right  to  vegetate  their  full  life- 
time; it  will  make  a  good  impression  in  the  same 
sense  as  does  the  sight  of  the  death  of  an  incura- 
ble." 


f 


i 


52 


Strindberg 


"That  a  wealth   of   revolutionary  thought, 

were  we  to  realize  that  those  who  will  clear  soci- 
ety  of  the  rotting,  superannuated  trees  that  have 
so  long  been  standing  in  the  way  of  others  entitle^ 
to  an  equal  share  in  life,  must  be  as  strong  as  the 
great  revolutionists  of  the  past! 

Indeed,  Strindberg  is  no  trimmer,  no  cheap  re- 
former, no  patchworker;  therefore  his  inability 
to  remain  fixed,  or  to  content  himself  with  ac- 
cepted truths.  Therefore  also,  his  great  versatil- 
ity, his  deep  grasp  of  the  subtlest  phases  of  life. 
Was  he  not  forever  the  seeker,  the  restless  spirit 
roaming  the  earth,  ever  in  the  death-throes  of  the 
Old,  to  give  birth  to  the  New  ?  How,  then,  could 
he  be  other  than  relentless  and  grim  and  brutally 
frank. 

•'  Countess  Julie,"  a  one-act  tragedy,  is  no  doubt 
a  brutally  frank  portrayal  of  the  most  intimate 
thoughts  of  man  and  of  the  age-long  antago-' 
between  classes.  Brutally  frank,  because  August 
Strindberg  strips  both  of  their  glitter,  their  shim 
and  pretense,  that  we  may  see  that  "  at  botton^ 
there's  not  so  much  difference  between  people  and 
—  people." 

Who  in  modern  dramatic  art  is  there  to  teach 
us  that  lesson  with  the  insight  of  an  August  Strind- 
berg? He  who  had  been  tossed  about  all  his  life 
between  the  decadent  traditions  of  his  aristocratic 
father  and  the  grim,  sordid  reality  of  the  class 


Countess  Julie 


53 


of  his  mother.  He  who  had  been  begotten 
through  the  physical  mastery  of  his  father  and 
the  physical  subserviency  of  his  mother.  Verily, 
Strindberg  knew  whereof  he  spoke  —  for  he 
spoke  with  his  soul,  u  language  whose  significance 
is  illuminating,  compelling. 

Countess  Julie  inherited  the  primitive,  in- 
tense passion  of  her  mother  and  the  neurotic  aris- 
tocratic tendencies  of  her  father.  Added  to  this 
heritage  is  the  call  of  the  wild,  the  "  intense  sum- 
mer heat  when  the  blood  turns  to  fire,  and  when 
all  are  in  a  holiday  spirit,  full  of  gladness,  and 
rank  is  flung  aside."  Countess  Julie  feels,  when 
too  late,  that  the  barrier  of  rank  reared  through 
the  ages,  by  wealth  and  power,  is  not  flung  aside 
with  impunity.  Therein  the  vicious  brutality,  the 
boundless  injustice  of  rank. 

The  people  on  the  estate  of  Julie's  father  are 
celebiating  St.  John's  Eve  with  dance,  song  and 
revelry.  The  Count  is  absent,  and  Julie  gra- 
ciously  mingles  with  the  servants.  But  once  hav- 
ing tasted  the  simple  abandon  of  the  people,  once 
having  thrown  off  the  artifice  and  superficiality  of 
her  aristocratic  decorum,  her  suppressed  passions 
leap  into  full  flame,  and  Julie  throws  herself  into 
the  arms  of  her  fath?-*s  /alet,  Jean  — not  be- 
cause of  love  for  the  man.  nor  yet  openly  and 
freely,  but  as  persr  s  o  Iier  station  may  do  when 
carried  away  by  the  ir.->ment. 


W 


If  H 


I: 


M 


*' 


54 


Strindberg 


I 


I 


!      I 


i 


i      li 


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i 
I   li 


■    it 


The  woman  in  Julie  pursues  the  male,  follows 
him  into  the  kitchen,  plays  with  him  as  with  a  pet 
dog,  and  then  feigns  indignation  when  Jean, 
aroused,  makes  advances.  How  dare  he,  the 
servant,  the  lackey,  even  insinuate  that  she  would 
have  him  I  "  I,  the  lady  of  the  house !  I  honor 
the  people  with  my  presence.  I,  in  love  with  my 
coachman?     I,  who  step  down." 

How  well  Strindberg  knows  the  psychology  of 
the  upper  classes  I  '  How  well  he  understands  that 
their  graciousness,  their  charity,  their  interest  in 
the  "  common  people  "  is,  after  all,  nothing  but 
arrogance,  blind  conceit  of  their  own  importance 
and  ignorance  of  the  character  of  the  people. 

Even  though  Jean  is  a  servant,  he  has  his  pride, 
he  has  his  dreams.  "  I  was  not  hired  to  be  your 
plaything,"  he  says  to  Julie;  "  I  think  too  much 
of  myself  for  that." 

Strange,  is  it  not,  that  those  who  serve  and 
drudge  for  others,  should  think  so  much  of  them- 
selves as  to  refuse  to  be  played  with?  Stranger 
still  that  they  should  indulge  in  dreams.  Jean 
says : 

Do  you  know  how  people  in  high  life  look  from  the 
under-world?  .  .  .  They  look  like  hawks  and  eagles 
whose  backs  one  seldom  sees,  for  they  soar  up  above.  I 
lived  in  a  hovel  provided  by  the  State,  with  seven  brothers 
and  sisters  and  a  pig;  out  on  a  barren  stretch  where  noth- 
ing grew,  not  even  a  tree,  but  from  the  window  I  could 
see  the  Count's  park  walls  with  apple  trees  rising  above 


Countess  Julie  e^ 

them.  That  was  the  pirden  of  paradise:  and  there  stood 
many  angry  anpels  with  flaminR  swords  protecting  it;  but 
for  all  that  I  and  other  boys  found  the  way  to  the  tree  of 
life  — now  you  despise  me.  ...  I  thought  if  it  is  true 
that  the  thief  on  the  cross  could  enter  heaven  and  dwell 
among  the  angels  it  was  strange  that  a  pauper  child  on 
God's  earth  could  not  go  into  the  :astle  park  and  play 
with  the  Countess'  daughter.  .  .  .  What  I  wanted  —  I 
don't  know.  You  were  unattainable,  but  through  the 
vision  of  you  I  was  made  to  realize  how  hopeless  it  was 
to  rise  above  the  conditions  of  my  birth. 

What  rich  food  for  thought  in  the  abo  e  for 
all  of  us,  and  for  the  Jeans,  the  people  who  do 
not  know  what  they  want,  yet  feel  the  cruelty  of 
a  world  that  keeps  the  pauper's  child  out  of  the 
castle  of  his  dreams,  away  from  joy  and  play 
and  beauty  1     The  injustice  and  the  bitterness  of 
It  all,  that  places  the  stigma  of  birth  as  an  im- 
passable obstacle,  a  fatal  imperative  excluding  one 
from  the  table  of  life,  with  the  result  of  producing 
such  terrible  effects  on  the  Julies  and  the  Jeans. 
The  one  unnerved,  made  heirless  and  useless  by 
affluence,  ease  and  Idleness;  the  other  enslaved  and 
bound  by  service  and  dependence.     Even  when 
Jean  wants  to,  he  cannot  rise  above  his  condi- 
tion.    When  Julie  asks  him  to  embrace  her,  to 
love  her,  he  replies : 

I  can't  as  long  as  we  are  in  this  house.  .  .  .  There 
«s  the  Count,  your  father.  ...  I  need  only  to  see  his 


liJ 


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■■': 

v'^^^^^^H 

i 

56 


Strindbera 


I    ! 


'   \\ 


It 

\\ 


gloves  lying  in  a  chair  to  feel  my  own  insignificance.  I 
have  only  to  hear  his  bell,  to  start  like  a  nervous  horse. 
.  .  .  And  now  that  I  sec  his  boots  standing  there  so  stiff 
and  proper.  I  feel  like  bowing  and  scraping.  ...  I  can't 
account  f(,r  it  but —  but  ah,  it  is  that  damned  servant  in 
my  back  —  I  believe  if  the  Count  came  here  now,  and 
told  me  to  cut  my  throat,  I  would  do  it  on  the  spot.' .  .  . 
Superstition  and  prejudice  taught  in  childhood  can't  be 
uprooted  m  a  moment. 

No,  superstition '  and  prejudice  cannot  be  up- 
rooted  in  a  moment;  nor  In  years.     The  awe  of 
authority,  servility  before  station  and  wealth  — 
these  are  the  curse  of  the  Jean  class  that  makes 
such  crmging  slaves  of  them.     Cringing  before 
those  who  are  above  them,  tyrannical  and  over- 
bearing toward  those  who  are  below  them.     For 
Jean  has  the  potentiality  of  the  master  in  him  as 
much  as  that  of  the  slave.     Yet  degrading  as 
the  damned  servant"  reacts  upon  Jean,  it  is 
much  more  terrible  in  its  effect  upon  Kristin,  the 
cook,  the  dull,  dumb  animal  who  has  so  little  left 
of  the  spirit  of  independence  that  she  has  lost 
even  the  ambition  to  rise  above  her  condition. 
Thus  when  Kristin,  the  betrothed  of  Jean,  dls- 
covers  that  her  mistress  Julie  had  given  herself 
to  him,  she  Is  indignant  that  her  lady  should  have 
so  much  forgotten  her  station  as  to  stoop  to  her 
father's  valet. 


i 


T.'*,J4#.-^ 


Countess  Julie 


S7 


Kristin.  I  don't  want  to  be  here  in  this  house  any 
longer  where  one  cannot  respect  one's  betters. 

Jean.     Why  should  one  respect  them? 

Kristin.  Yes,  you  can  say  that,  you  are  so  '>roart. 
But  I  dnn't  want  to  serve  people  who  behave  so.  It  re- 
flects on  oneself,  I  think. 

Jean.  Yes,  but  it's  ;i  comfort  that  thr\''re  not  a  bit 
better  than  we. 

Kristin.  No,  I  don't  rrn'nk  so,  for  i^  the  are  not  bet 
ter  there's  no  use  in  oui  tr>  ing  to  ber-er  ourselves  in  this 
world.  And  to  think  of  the  Count!  Think  of  him  who 
has  had  so  much  wir  w  all  his  days.  No,  I  don't  want 
to  stay  in  this  house  a  »y  longer!  And  to  think  of  it  being 
with  such  as  you!  If  it  had  been  the  Lieutenant  — 
...  I  have  never  lowered  my  position.  Let  any  one 
say,  if  they  can,  that  the  Count's  cook  has  had  anything 
to  do  with  the  riding  naster  or  the  swineherd.  Let  them 
come  and  say  it! 

Such  dignity  and  morality  are  indeed  pathetic, 
because  they  indicate  how  completely  serfdom 
may  annihilate  even  the  longing  for  something 
higher  and  better  in  the  breast  of  a  human  being. 
The  Kristins  represent  the  greatest  obstacle  to 
social  growth,  the  deadlock  in  the  conflict  between 
the  classes.  On  the  other  hand,  the  Jeans,  with 
all  their  longing  for  higher  possibilities,  often 
become  brutalized  in  the  hard  school  of  life; 
though  in  the  conflict  with  Julie,  Jean  shows  bru- 
tality only  at  the  critical  moment,  when  it  be- 


I 

.1 


58 


Strindberg 


comes  8  question  of  life  and  death,  a  moment 

XrBotr"''^  -'  -"^-  "■'""; 

/«„  though  the  male  i,  aroused  in  him,  plead, 
Trn  ml"  ""  '°  P'"^  '*'"'  «"•  begs  he;  ?o  re- 

hance  for'  '■°°"''  '"/  ""'  *°  «■"'  *'  "^""'"a 
chance  for  gossip.     And  when  later  Jem  sugeests 

h,,  room  for  a  hiding  place  that  Julie  may  eXe 

he  approachmg  merry-malcers,  it  is  to  save  her 

from  ,he.r  songs  full  of  insinuation  and  ribaldr^ 

result 'oft'"  '  ,'  '"'"''.•"'  ""PP-'-  ->>«  «  a 
result  of  their  closeness  in  Jean's  room,  of  their 

avalanche  of  sex  sweeps  them  orf  their  feet   for 

«t™  to  r  rv""'  *"" ""-'"'°-'  -^  ^^y 

^7.  h  "".'^'"^';'"'  «  "  »g»in  /.ra„  who  is  will- 
mg  to  bear  h,s  share  of  the  responsibility      "I 

tlil  ■' burdo  "'  '"V^'r  "'  ">""-=."  he  tell 

w^^  h ::  tz:^-- ;- -^^^^^^^^^^^^ 

had  not  invited  it?"  ' 

JuiS'caVtrrar  '™*,'"  ?"  """"^"'  ""an  the 
juiies  can  grasp,  namely,  that  even  servants  have 

trifled'whh"  '"^  '"""^  *«  -"not  bng  be 

"hat  ir^,r*r""P"">     '^'  J""'  know 
that  It  IS  the  glitter  of  brass,  not  gold    that 

dazzles  us  from  below,  and  that  the  ead  t'  back 

«  gray  hke  the  rest  of  him."     For  ^^  sa^^ 

I  m  sorry  to  have  to  realize  that  all  that  I  have 


Countess  Julie 


59 


looked  up  to  is  not  worth  while,  and  It  pains  me 
to  see  you  fallen  lower  than  your  cook,  as  it  pains 
me  to  see  autumn  blossoms  whipped  to  pieces  by 
the  cold  rain  and  transformed  into  —  dirt !  " 

It  is  this  force  that  helps  to  transform  the  blos- 
som into  dirt  that  August  Strindberg  emphasizes 
in  "  The  Father."  For  the  child  born  against 
the  will  of  its  parents  must  also  be  without  will, 
and  too  weak  to  bear  the  stress  and  storm  of  life. 
In  "  Countess  Julie  "  this  idea  recurs  with  even 
more  tragic  effect.  Julie,  too,  had  been  brought 
into  the  world  against  her  mother's  wishes.  In- 
deed, so  much  did  her  mother  dread  the  thought 
of  a  child  that  she  "  was  always  ill,  she  often 
had  cramps  and  acted  queerly,  often  hiding  in  the 
orchard  or  the  attic."  Added  to  this  horror  was 
the  conflict,  the  relentless  war  of  traditions  be- 
tween Julie's  aristocratic  father  and  her  mother 
descended  from  the  people.  This  was  the 
heritage  of  the  innocent  victim,  Julie  —  an  au- 
tumn blossom  blown  into  fragments  by  lack  of 
stability,  lack  of  love  and  lack  of  harmony.  In 
other  words,  while  Julie  is  broken  and  weakened 
by  her  inheritance  and  environment,  Jean  is  hard- 
ened by  his. 

When  Jean  kills  the  bird  which  Julie  wants  to 
rescue  from  the  ruins  of  her  life,  it  is  not  so  much 
out  of  real  cruelty,  as  it  is  because  the  character 


iik 


:4      . 


te 


I 

i 

! 


Strindberg 


the  determinafon  to  act  in  time  of  danglr  fZ 
as  Jean  says,  "  Miss  TuIIp  t  1  "^nger.  l^oT 
hann^  T  1,  1        -^     ^'  ^  *^^  ^^at  YOU  are  un- 

undTLndTu      7°"  "'  '"""'"«■  •>"'  I  """0' 

work  gives'LT^e.     W^rav"„rehf  ^-j  ^'"' 
and  night  for  it  a,  you  "  "''"'''  ^"^ 

a  useless,  purposelesT  exiUce      Th       r"\°' 

clafs  »  fli'„7etef^  hf'"'  *'  """'  "'  *e 
hon,e  with  either  "tht'^^Thi'l-r/'''  " 
galled  by  the  irreconc S'ity  ^f  the  1  '^  ''"i 
though  he  was  no  sermoni"er  !„  th  ?=  '""^ 

ing  a  definite  panaceTTrirH-  M    ■''""  "'  "" "" 
yet  with  master  touch  h   ""^V'^'f^  <»■  social  ill,, 

-:'-  oi  ciardSi :  L7 1 :?' itr '""^ 

nisms.     In  "  Countess  Tuli,  "  i,  P  .  '""8°- 

of  the  most  vital  p"bl!™'oftf?gf  ^'^  ""' 
to  the  world  a  work  powerful  in  L  f '  "''/ave 
-ta,  emotions,  laying  bat're  t^  "so"/,  t 


Comrades 


6i 


hind    the    mask    of    social    tradition    and    class 
culture. 


COMRADES 

Although  "  Comrades  "  was  written  in  1888, 
it  is  in  a  measure  the  most  up-to-date  play  of 
Strindberg, —  so  thoroughly  modern  that  one  at 
all  conversant  with  the  milieu  that  inspired  "  Com- 
rades "  could  easily  point  out  the  type  of  character 
portrayed  in  the  play. 

It  is  a  four-act  comedy  of  marriage  —  the  kind 
of  marriage  that  lacks  social  and  legal  security  in 
the  form  of  a  ceremony,  but  retains  all  the  petty 
conventions  of  the  marriage  institution.  The  re- 
sults of  such  an  anomaly  are  indeed  ludicrous  when 
viewed  from  a  distance,  but  very  tragic  for  those 
who  play  a  part  in  it. 

Axel  Alberg  and  his  wife  Bertha  are  Swedish 
artists  residing  in  Paris.  They  are  both  painters. 
Of  course  they  share  the  same  living  quarters,  and 
although  each  has  a  separate  room,  the  arrange- 
ment does  not  hinder  them  from  trying  to  regulate 
each  other's  movements.  Thus  when  Bertha  does 
not  arrive  on  time  to  keep  her  engagement  with 
her  model,  Axel  is  provoked ;  and  when  he  takes 
the  liberty  to  chide  her  for  her  tardiness,  his  wife 
is  indignant  at  the  "  invasiveness  "  of  her  husband, 
because  women  of  the  type  of  Bertha  are  as  sensi- 


-|! 


I 


h 


I 


I 


62 


Strindberg 


tive  to  fair  criticism  as  their  ultra-conservative 
^sters      Nor  is  Benha  different  in  her  concept  o 
Jove,  which  .s  expressed  in  the  following  dialogue  • 

Bertha     Will  you  be  very  good,  very,  very  good? 

Axel.     I  always  want  to  be  good  to  you,  my  friend. 

tion,  wants  to  make  use  of  Axel's  "  goodness  " 
to  secure  the  grace  of  one  of  the  art  jurors 

wife:  wo^id";::?^"^'  -"  -^^^  ^  -"^«-  ^-  ^o- 

Axel.    Go  begging?    No,  I  don't  want  to  do  that. 

Bertha  immediately  concludes  that  he  does  not 
love  her  and  that,  moreover,  he  is  jealous  of  he 
art.     1  here  is  a  scene. 

Bertha  soon  recovers.     But  bent  on  gaining  her 
purpose,  she  changes  her  manner.  ^ 

Bertha.  Axel,  let's  be  friends!  And  hear  me  a 
moment  Do  you  think  that  my  position  in  yr  Tous 
-for  u  IS  yours ~ is  agreeable  to  me?  You  supl 
nie  you  pay  for  my  studying  at  Julian's,  while  you  vS^r 
self  cannot  afford  instruction.  Don't  you  think  [Te" 
how  you  s.t  and  wear  out  yourself  and  your  taU  on 
hese  pot.bo,lmg  drawings,  and  are  able  to  paint  onlv  in 
leisure    moments?    You    haven V    K--     ^"  P^'nt  only  m 

noUe-how  sacnfidng  you  are,  and  also  ,„„  do^ 
know  how  I  suffer  ,0  see  you  ,„,1  so  for  me     Oh,  Zl 
.  <  know  how  I  feel  my  position.    Wha,  .^Tr, 


you 


Comrades 


63 


you?  Of  what  use  am  I  in  your  house?  Oh,  I  blush 
when  I  think  about  it! 

Axel.    What  talkl     Isn't  a  man  to  support  his  wife? 

Bertha.  I  don't  want  it.  And  you,  Axel,  you  must 
help  me.  I'm  not  your  equal  v^hen  it's  like  that,  but  I 
could  be  if  you  would  humble  yourself  once,  just  once! 
Don't  think  that  you  are  alone  in  going  to  one  of  rhe 
jury  to  say  a  good  word  for  another.  If  it  were  for 
yourself,  it  would  be  another  matter,  but  for  me  — 
Forgive  me !  Now  I  beg  of  you  as  nicely  as  I  know  how. 
Lift  me  from  my  humiliating  position  to  your  side,  and 
I'll  be  so  grateful  I  shall  never  trouble  you  again  with 
reminding  you  of  my  position.     Never,  Axel! 

Yet  though  Bertha  gracefully  ar  epts  everything 
/4xel  does  for  her,  with  as  little  compunction  as 
the  ordinary  wife,  she  does  not  give  as  much  in  re- 
turn as  the  latter.  On  the  contrary,  she  exploits 
yixel  in  a  thousand  ways,  squanders  his  hard- 
earned  money,  and  lives  the  life  of  the  typical 
wiff'/  parasite. 

A  gust  Strindberg  could  not  help  attacking  with 
much  bitterness  such  a  farce  and  outrage  parading 
in  the  disguise  of  radicalism.  For  Bertha  is  not 
an  exceptional,  isolated  case.  To-day,  as  when 
Strindberg  satirized  the  all-too-feminine,  the  ma- 
jority of  so-called  emancipated  women  are  willing 
to  accept,  like  Bertha,  everything  from  the  man, 
and  yet  feel  highly  indignant  if  he  asks  in  return 
the  simple  comforts  of  married  life.     The  ordi- 


-PI 


i 


64 


Strindberg 


nary  wife,  at  least,  does  not  pretend  to  play  an  im- 
portant  role  in  the  life  of  her  husband.     But  the 
iJerthas  deceive  themselves  and  others  with  the  no- 
tion that  the  "  emancipated  "  wife  is  a  great  moral 
torce,   an   inspiration  to  the  man.     Whereas  in 
reality  she  is  often  a  cold-blooded  exploiter  of  the 
work  and  ideas  of  the  man,  a  heavy  handicap  to  his 
life-purpose,  retarding  his  growth  as  effectively  as 
did  her  grandmothers  in  the  long  ago.     Bertha 
takes  advantage  of  Axel's  affection  to  further  her 
own   artistic  ambitions,  just  as  the  Church  and 
Mate  married  woman  uses  her  husband's  love  to 
advance  her  social  ambitions.     It  never  occurs  to 
Bertha  that  she  is  no  less  despicable  than  her  le- 
gally   married    sister.     She    cannot    understand 
dxels  opposition  to  an  art  that  clamors  only  for 
approval,  distinrtion  and  decorations. 

However,  Axel  can  not  resist  Bertha's  plead- 
ings.     He  visits  the  patron  saint  of  the  salon,  who, 
by  the  way,  is  not  M.  Roubey,  but  Mme.  Roubey; 
for  she  is  the  "  President  of  the  Woman-Painter 
Protective  Society."     What  chance  would  Bertha 
have   with   one   of  her  own   sex   in   authority? 
Hence  her  husband  must  be  victimized.     During 
Axel's  absence  Bertha  learns  that  his  picture  has 
been  refused  by  the  salon,  while  hers  is  accepted. 
She  IS  not  m  the  least  disturbed,  nor  at  all  con- 
cerned over  the  effect  of  the  news  on  Axel.     On 
the  contrary,  she  is  rather  pleased  because  "  so 


Comrades 


6s 


many  women  are  refused  that  a  man  might  put  up 
with  it,  and  be  made  to  feel  it  once." 

In  her  triumph  Bertha's  attitude  to  Axel  be- 
comes overbearing;  she  humiliates  him,  belittles 
his  art,  and  even  plans  to  humble  him  before  the 
guests  invited  to  celebrate  Bertha's  artistic  suc- 
cess. 

But  Axel  is  tearing  himself  free  from  the  meshes 
of  his  decaying  love.  He  begins  to  see  Bertha  as 
she  is:  her  unscrupulousness  in  money  matters,  her 
ceaseless  effort  to  emasculate  him.  In  a  terrible 
word  tussle  he  tells  her:  "  I  had  once  been  free, 
but  you  clipped  the  hair  of  my  strength  while  my 
tired  head  lay  in  your  lap.  During  sleep  you  stole 
my  best  blood." 

In  the  last  act  Bertha  discovers  that  Axel  had 
generously  changed  the  numbers  on  the  paintings 
in  order  to  give  her  a  better  chance.  It  was  his 
picture  that  was  chosen  as  her  work.  She  feels 
ashamed  and  humiliated;  but  i*-  :«  too  late.  Axel 
leaves  her  with  the  exclama*  on,  I  want  to  meet 
my  comrades  in  the  cafe,  bu*^  af  home  I  want  a 
wife." 

A  characteristic  sidelight  in  the  play  is  given  by 
the  conversation  of  Mrs.  Hall,  the  divorced  wife 
of  Doctor  Ostermark.  She  comes  to  Bertha  with 
a  bitter  tirade  against  the  Doctor  because  he  gives 
her  insufficient  alimony. 


'^ 


66 


Strindberg 


li  \' 


Mrs.  Hall.  And  now  that  the  girls  are  grown  up 
and  about  to  start  in  h'fe,  now  he  writes  us  that  he  is 
bankrupt  and  that  he  can't  send  us  more  than  half  the 
allowance.  Isn't  that  nice,  just  now  when  the  girls  arc 
grown  up  and  are  going  out  into  life? 

Bertha.  We  must  look  into  this.  He'll  be  here  in  a 
itw  days.  Do  you  know  that  you  have  the  law  on  your 
side  and  that  the  courts  can  force  him  to  pay?  And  he 
shall  be  forced  to  do  so.  Do  you  understand?  So,  he 
can  bring  childr/-n  into  the  world  and  then  leave  them 
empty-handed  with  tHe  poor  deserted  mother. 

Bertha,  who  believes  in  woman's  equality  with 
man,  and  in  her  economic  independence,  yet  de- 
livers herself  of  the  old  sentimental  gush  in  be- 
half  of  "  the  poor  deserted  mother,"  who  has  been 
supported  by  her  husband  for  years,  though  their 
relations  had  ceased  long  before. 

A  distorted  picture,  some  feminists  will  say. 
Not  at  all.  It  is  as  typical  to-day  as  it  was  twenty- 
six  years  ago.  Even  to-day  some  "  emancipated  " 
women  claim  the  right  to  be  self-supporting,  yet 
demand  their  husband's  support.  In  fact,  many 
leaders  in  the  American  suffrage  movement  assure 
us  that  when  women  will  make  laws,  they  will  force 
men  to  support  their  wives.  From  the  leaders 
down  to  the  simplest  devotee,  the  same  attitude 
prevails,  namely,  that  man  is  a  blagueur,  and  that 
but  for  him  the  Berthas  would  have  long  ago  be- 


Comrades 


67 


come  Michelangelos,  Beethovens,  or  Shakes- 
peares;  they  claim  that  the  Berthas  represent  the 
most  virtuous  half  of  the  race,  and  that  they  have 
made  up  their  minds  to  make  man  as  virtuous  as 
they  are. 

That  such  ridiculous  extravagance  should  be  re- 
sented  by  the  Axels  is  not  at  all  surprising.  It  is 
resented  even  by  the  more  intelligent  of  Bertha's 
own  sex.  Not  because  they  are  opposed  to  the 
emancipation  of  woman,  but  because  they  do  not 
believe  that  her  emancipation  can  ever  be  achieved 
by  such  absurd  and  hysterical  notions.  They  re- 
pudiate the  idea  that  people  who  retain  the  sub- 
stance of  their  slavery  and  merely  escape  the 
shadow,  can  possibly  be  free,  live  free,  or  act  free. 

The  radicals,  no  less  than  the  feminists,  must 
realize  that  a  mere  external  change  in  their  eco- 
nomic and  political  status,  cannot  alter  the  inher- 
ent  or  acquired  prejudices  and  superstitions  which 
underlie  their  slavery  and  dependence,  and  which 
are  the  main  causes  of  the  antagonism  between  the 
sexes. 

The  transition  period  is  indeed  a  most  difficult 
and  perilous  stage  for  the  woman  as  well  as  for  the 
man.  It  requires  a  powerful  light  to  guide  us 
past  the  dangerous  reefs  and  rocks  in  the  ocean  of 
life.  August  Strindberg  is  such  a  light.  Some- 
times glaring,  ofttimes  scorching,  but  always  bene- 
ficially illuminating  the  path  for  those  who  walk 


%' 


f 


68 


Sirindberg 


in  darkness,  for  the  blind  ones  who  would  rather 
deceive  and  be  deceived  than  look  into  the  recesses 
of  their  being.  Therefore  August  Strindberg  is 
not  only  "  the  spiritual  conscience  of  Sweden,"  as 
he  has  been  called,  but  the  spiritual  conscience  of 
the  whole  human  family,  and,  as  such,  a  most  vital 
revolutionary  factor. 


li 


I  'i 


THE  GERMAN  DRAMA 


HERMANN  SUDERMANN 

IT  has  been  said  that  military  conquest  gen^ 
erally  goes  hand  in  hand  with  the  decline 
of  creative  genius,  with  the  retrogression 
of  culture.  I  believe  this  is  not  a  mere 
assertion.  The  history  of  the  human  race  re- 
peatedly demonstrates  that  whenever  a  nation 
achieved  great  military  success,  it  invariably  in- 
volved the  decline  of  art,  of  literature,  of  the 
drama;  in  short,  of  culture  in  the  deepest  and 
finest  sense.  This  has  been  particularly  borne  out 
by  Germany  after  its  military  triumph  in  the 
Franco-Prussian  War. 

For  almost  twenty  years  after  that  war,  the 
country  of  poets  and  thinkers  remained,  intellectu- 
ally, a  veritable  desert,  barren  of  ideas.  Young 
Germany  had  to  go  for  its  intellectual  food  to 
France. —  Daudet,  Maupassant,  and  Zola ;  or  to 
Russia  —  Tolstoy,  Turgenev,  and  Dostoyevski ; 
finally  also  to  Ibsen  and  Strindberg.  Nothing 
thrived  in  Germany  during  that  period,  except  a 
sickening  patriotism  and  sentimental  romanticism, 
perniciously   misleading  the   people   and   giving 

69 


i 


70 


Hermann  Sudermann 


them  no  adequate  outlook  upon  life  and  the  social 
struggle.  Perhaps  that  accounts  for  the  popular 
vogue  of  Hermann  Sudermann:  it  may  explain 
why  he  was  received  by  the  young  generation  with 
open  arms  and  acclaimed  a  great  artist. 

It  is  not  my  intention  to  discuss  Hermann  Suder- 
mann as  an  artist  or  to  consider  him  from  the 
point  of  view  of  the  technic  of  ^he  drama.  I  in- 
tend to  deal  with  him  as  the  tirst  German  drama- 
tist tc  treat  social'  topics  and  discuss  the  pressing 
questions  of  the  day.  From  this  point  oi  view 
Hermann  Sudermann  may  be  regarded  -^s  the  pio- 
neer of  a  new  era  in  the  German  drama.  Pri- 
marily is  this  true  of  the  three  plays  "  Honor," 
"  Magda,"  and  "  The  Fires  of  St.  John."  In 
these  dramas  Hermann  Sudermann,  while  not 
delving  deeply  into  the  causes  of  the  social  con- 
flicts, nevertheless  touches  upon  many  vital  sub- 
jects. 

In  "  Honor  "  the  author  demolishes  the  super- 
ficial, sentimental  conception  of  "  honor  "  that  is 
a  purely  external  manifestation,  having  no  roots 
in  the  life,  the  habits,  or  the  customs  of  the  people. 
He  exposes  the  stupidity  of  the  notion  that  be- 
cause a  man  looks  askance  at  you,  or  fails  to  pay 
respect  to  your  uniform,  you  must  challenge  him 
to  a  duel  and  shoot  him  dead.  In  this  play  Suder- 
mann shows  that  the  conception  of  honor  is  noth- 
ing fixed  or  permanent,  but  that  it  varies  with 


Magda 


71 


economic  and  social  status,  different  races,  peo- 
ples and  times  holding  different  ideas  of  it.  With 
"  Honor  "  Sudcrmann  succeeded  in  undermining 
to  a  considerable  extent  the  stupid  and  ridicuis+us 
notion  of  the  German?  ruled  by  the  rod  and  :he 
Kaiser's  coat. 

But  I  particularly  wish  to  consider  "  Magda," 
because,  of  all  the  plays  written  by  Hermann 
Sudermann,  It  Is  the  most  revolutionary  and 
the  least  tUtional.  It  deals  with  a  universal  sub- 
ject,—  the  awakening  of  woman.  It  Is  revo- 
lutionary, not  because  Sudermann  was  the  first  to 
treat  this  subject,  for  Ibsen  had  preceded  him  but 
because  in  "  Magda  "  he  was  the  first  to  raise  the 
questl')?-  A  woman's  right  to  motherhood  with  or 
w  !,r/;t  *r.    >  ;nction  of  State  and  Church. 


« 


m 


•Ji 


MAGDA 


Ji.U 


\; 


Colonel  Schwartze,  Magda's 
father  ii;i  »•  -rTi  all  the  conventional  and  con- 
servative :  otions  of  society. 

Schwartze.  Modern  ideas!  Oh,  pshaw!  I  know 
them.  But  come  into  the  quiet  homes  where  are  bred 
brave  soldiers  and  virtuous  wives.  There  you'll  hear  no 
talk  about  heredity,  no  arguments  about  individuality,  no 
scandalous  gossip.  There  modern  ideas  have  no  foot- 
hold, for  it  Is  there  that  the  life  and  strength  of  the 
Fatherland  abide.  Look  at  this  home!  There  is  no 
luxury, —  hardly  even  what  you  call  good  taste, —  faded 


I 


72 


Hermann  Sudermann 


rugs,  birchen  chairs,  old  pictures;  and  yet  when  you  see 
the  beams  of  the  western  sun  pour  through  the  white 
curtains  and  he  with  such  a  loving  touch  on  the  old  room, 
does  not  something  say  to  you,  "  Here  dwells  true  hap- 
pmess    ? 

The  Colonel  is  a  rigid  military  man.  He  is 
utterly  blind  to  the  modern  conception  of  woman's 
place  in  life.  He  rules  his  family  as  the  Kaiser 
rules  the  nation,  with  severe  discipline,  with  ter- 
rorism and  depotism.  He  chooses  the  man  whom 
Magda  is  to  marry,  and  when  she  refuses  to  ac- 
cept his  choice,  he  drives  her  out  of  the  house. 

At  the  age  of  eighteen  Magda  goes  out  into 
the  world  yearning  for  development;  she  longs 
for  artistic  expression  and  economic  independence. 
Seventeen  years  later  she  returns  to  her  native 
town,  a  celebrated  singer.  As  Madelene  dell' 
Orto  she  is  invited  to  sing  at  the  town's  charity 
bazaar,  and  is  acclaimed,  after  the  performance, 
one  of  the  greatest  stars  of  the  country. 

Magda  has  not  forgotten  her  home;  especially 
does  she  long  to  see  her  father  whom  she  loves 
passionately,  and  her  sister,  whom  she  had  left 
a  little  child  of  eight.  After  the  concert  Magda, 
the  renowned  artist,  steals  away  from  her  admir- 
ers, with  their  flowers  and  presents,  and  goes  out 
into  the  darkness  of  the  night  to  catch  a  glimpse, 
through  the  window  at  least,  of  her  father  and  her 
little  sister 


Magda 


73 


Magda's  father  is  scandalized  at  her  mode  of 
life:  what  will  people  say  if  the  daughter  of  the 
distinguished  officer  stops  at  a  hotel,  associates 
with  men  without  a  chaperon,  and  is  wined  and 
dined  away  from  her  home?  Magda  is  finally 
prevailed  upon  to  remain  with  her  parents.  She 
consents  on  condition  that  they  should  not  pry 
into  her  life,  that  they  should  not  soil  and  be- 
smirch her  innermost  being.  But  that  is  expect- 
ing the  impossible  from  a  provincial  environment. 
It  is  not  that  her  people  really  question ;  but  they 
insinuate,  they  speak  with  looks  and  nods;  burn- 
ing curiosity  to  unearth  Magda's  life  is  in  the  very 
air. 

Schwartze.  I  implore  you  —  Come  here,  my  child  — 
nearer  —  so  —  I  implore  you  —  let  me  be  happy  in  my 
dying  hour.  Tell  me  that  you  have  remained  pure  in 
body  and  soul,  and  then  go  with  my  blessing  on  your  way. 

Magda.  I  have  remained  —  true  to  myself,  dear 
father. 

Schwartze.     How?    In  good  or  in  ill? 

Magda.     In  what  —  for  me  —  was  good. 

Schwartze.  I  love  you  with  my  whole  heart,  because 
I  have  sorrowed  for  you  —  so  long.  But  I  must  know 
who  you  are. 

Among  the  townspeople  who  come  to  pay 
homage  to  I^^agda  is  Councillor  von  Keller.  In 
his  student  days  he  belonged  to  the  bohemian  set 
and  was  full  of  advanced  ideas.     At  that  period 


la 
fill 


<f 


74 


Hermann  ^vdermann 


i 


I 


he  met  Mag  da,  young,  beautiful,  and  inexperi- 
enced. A  love  affair  developed.  But  when  Von 
Keller  finished  his  studies,  he  went  home  to  the 
fold  of  his  family,  and  forgot  his  sweetheart^ 
Magda.  In  due  course  he  became  an  important 
pillar  of  society,  a  very  influential  citizen,  admired, 
respected,  and  ff,ared  in  the  community. 

When  Magda  returns  home.  Von  Keller  comes 
to  pay  her  hio  respects.  But  she  is  no  longer  the 
msignificant  little  girl  he  had  known;  she  is  now 
a  celebrit^^  What  pillar  of  society  is  averse  to 
basking  in  the  glow  of  celebrities?  Von  Keller 
offers  r.owers  and  admiration.  But  Magda  dis- 
cover ,  in  him  the  man  who  had  robbed  her  of  her 
fairh  and  trust, —  the  father  of  her  child. 

Magda  has  become  purified  by  her  bitter  strug- 
gle. It  made  her  finer  and  bigger.  She  does  not 
even  reproach  the  man,  because 

Magda,  I've  painted  this  meeting  to  myself  a  thou- 
sand times,  and  have  been  prepared  for  it  for  years. 
Something  warned  me,  too,  when  I  undertook  thii 
journey  home  — though  I  must  say  I  hardly  expect-d 
just  here  to-  Yes,  how  is  it  that,  after  what  has 
passed  between  us,  you  came  into  this  house?  It  seems 
to  me  a  little—  ...  I  can  see  it  all.  The  effort  to 
keep  worthy  of  respect  under  such  difficulties,  wi'th  a  bad 
conscience,  is  awkward.  You  look  down  from  the 
height  of  your  pure  atmosphere  on  your  sinful  youth,— 
for  you  are  called  a  pillar,  my  dear  friend. 


Magda 


75 


Von  Keller.  Well,  I  felt  myself  called  to  higher 
things.  I  thought  —  Why  should  I  undervalue  my  posi- 
tion? I  have  become  Councillor,  and  that  comparatively 
young.  An  ordinary  ambition  might  take  satisfaction  in 
that.  But  one  sits  and  waits  at  home,  while  others  are 
called  to  the  ministry.  And  this  environment,  conven- 
tionality, and  narrowness,  all  is  so  gray, —  gray!  And 
the  ladies  here  —  for  one  who  carc~,  at  all  about  elegance 
—  I  assure  j'ou  something  rejoiced  within  me  when  I 
read  this  morning  that  you  were  the  famous  singer, — 
you  to  whom  I  was  tied  by  so  many  dear  memories 
and  — 

Magda.  And  then  you  thought  whether  it  might  not 
be  possible  with  the  help  of  these  dear  memories  to  bring 
a  little  color  into  the  gray  background? 

Von  Keller.     Oh,  pray  don't  — 

Magda.     Well,  between  old  friends  — 

Von  Keller.     Really,  are  we  that,  really? 

Magda.  Certainly,  sans  rancune.  Oh,  if  I  took  it 
from  the  other  standpoint,  I  should  have  to  range  the 
M'hole  gamut, —  liar,  coward,  traitor!  But  as  I  look  at 
it,  I  owe  you  nothing  but  thanks,  my  friend. 

Von  Keller.     This  is  a  view  which  — 

Magda.  Which  is  very  convenient  for  you.  But 
why  should  I  not  make  it  convenient  for  you?  In  the 
manner  in  which  we  met,  you  had  no  obligations  towards 
me.  I  had  left  my  home;  I  was  young  and  innocent, 
hot-blooded  and  careless,  and  I  lived  as  I  saw  others  live. 
I  gave  myself  to  you  because  I  loved  you.  I  might  per- 
haps have  loved  anyone  who  came  in  my  way.  That  — 
that  seemed  to  be  all  over.    And  we  were  so  happy, — 


i'l\i 


% 


76 


Hermann  Sudermann 


TT''  ri  ;  ■  '/u'^'  ^'  ^"^  "  ""^^^  ^'^*'  ^d  when 
ished  ^  ^'''■'  °"'  ''^y  ™y  ^°^^^  ^«"- 

J-on  J5:.//.r.    An  unlucky  chance,  I  swear  to  you.     My 
father  was  .11.    I  had  to  travel.     I  wrote  everything  to 

w-frif*     "'"^'/  '^'d"''  reproach  you.     And  now  I 
will  tell  you  why  I  owe  you  thanks.     I  was  a  stupid,  un- 
suspecting thmg.  enjoying  freedom  like  a  -unaway  mon- 
key.    Through  you  I  became  a  woman.     For  whatever 
I  have  done  ,n  my  art.  for  whatever  I  have  become  in 
niyself,  I  have  you  to  thank.     My  soul  was  like -yes 
down  below  there,   there  used   to  be  an  ^olian   harp 
which  was  left  mo  dering  because  my  father  could  not 
bear  ,t.     Such  a  s.lent  harp  was  my  soul;  and  through 
you  .t  was  g.ven  to  the  storm.    And  it  sounded  alm^t 
to  breaking,- the  whole  scale  of  passions  which  bring  us 
women   to  maturity.- love  and  hate  and   re.enge  and 
ambition,   and   need,   need,    need,- three   times   need - 
and   the  highest,   the  strongest,  the  holiest  of  all    the 
mother's  love! -All  I  owe  to  you! 
Von  Keller.     My  child! 

;»/^^^^.  Your  child?  Who  calls  it  so?  Yours? 
Ha  ha!  Dare  to  claim  portion  in  him  and  I'll  kill  you 
with  these  hands.  Who  are  you?  You're  a  strange 
man  ho  gratified  his  lust  and  passed  on  with  a  laugh. 
But  I  have  a  child,-  my  son,  my  God,  my  all !  For  him 
I  hved  and  starved  and  froze  and  walked  the  streets; 
tor  him  I  sang  and  danced  in  concert-halls.—  for  my  child 
who  was  crying  for  his  bread! 


mmmmmmm^ 


Magda 


77 


Von  Keller.  For  Heaven's  sake,  hush!  someone's 
coming. 

Magda.  Let  them  come!  Let  them  all  come!  I 
don't  care,  I  don't  care!  To  their  faces  I'll  say  what  I 
think  of  you, —  of  you  and  your  respectable  society. 
Why  should  I  be  worse  than  you,  that  I  must  prolong 
my  existence  among  you  by  a  lie!  Why  should  this 
gold  upon  my  body,  and  the  lustre  which  surrounds  my 
name,  only  increase  my  infamy?  Have  I  not  worked 
early  and  late  for  ten  long  years?  Have  i  not  woven  this 
dress  with  sleepless  nights?  Have  I  not  built  up  my 
career  step  by  step,  like  thousands  of  my  kind?  Why 
should  I  blush  before  anyone?  I  am  myself,  and  through 
myself  I  have  become  what  I  am. 

Magda* s  father  learns  about  the  affair  and  im- 
mediately demands  that  the  Councillor  marry  his 
daughter,  or  fight  a  duel.  Magda  resents  the 
preposterous  idea.  Von  Keller  is  indeed  glad  to 
offer  Magda  his  hand  in  marriage :  she  is  so  beau- 
tiful and  fascinating;  she  will  prove  a  great  asset 
to  his  ambitions.  But  he  stipulates  that  she  give 
up  her  profession  of  singer,  and  that  the  existence 
of  the  child  be  kept  secret.  He  tells  Magda  that 
later  on,  when  they  are  happily  married  and  firmly 
established  in  the  world,  they  will  bring  their 
child  to  their  home  and  adopt  it;  but  for  the  pres- 
ent respectability  must  not  know  that  it  is  theirs, 
born  out  of  wedlock,  without  the  sanction  of  the 
Church  and  the  State. 


if* 


M 


78 


Hermann  Sudermann 


That  is  more  than  Magda  can  endure.  She  Is 
outraged  that  she,  the  mother,  who  had  given  up 
everything  for  the  sake  of  her  child,  who  had 
slaved,  struggled  and  drudged  in  order  to  win  a 
career  and  economic  independence  —  all  for  the 
sake  of  the  child  -  that  she  should  forswear  her 
right  to  motherhood,  her  right  to  be  true  to  her- 
sell  I 

Magda.    What  — what  do  you  say? 

Von  Keller.  Why,  it  would  ruin  us.  No,  no.  it  is 
absurd  to  think  of  it.  But  we  can  make  a  little  journey 
every  year  to  wherever  it  is  being  educated.  One  can 
register  under  a  false  name;  that  is  not  unusual  in  for- 
eign parts,  and  is  hardly  criminal.    And  when  we  are 

^7JT\      '  '"'^  °'^"  '■'^^'"  conditions  have  been 
tulhlled,  that  can  be  arranged,  can't  it?    Then  we  can 
under  some  pretext,  adopt  it,  can't  we? 

Magda.  I  have  humbled  myself,  I  have  surrendered 
my  judgment.  I  have  let  myself  be  carried  like  a  lamb  to 
the  slaughter.  But  my  child  I  will  not  leave.  Give  up 
my  child  to  save  his  career! 

Magda  orders  Von  Keller  out  of  the  house 
But  the  old  Colonel  is  unbending.     He  insists  that 
his   daughter  become   an   honorable   woman   by 
marrying  the  man  who  had  seduced  her.     Her 
refusal  fires  his  wrath  to  wild  rage. 

Schwartze.     Either  you  swear  to  me  now  .  .  .  that 
you  w,ll  become  the  honorable  wife  of  your  child's  father 
or -neither  of  us  two  shall  go  out  of  this  room  alive! 


Magda 


79 


*  .  .  You  think   .  .  .  because  you  are  free  and  a  great 
artist,  that  you  can  set  at  naught  — 

Magda.  Leave  art  out  of  the  question.  Consider  me 
nothing  more  than  the  seamstress  or  the  servant-maid 
who  seeks,  among  strangers,  the  little  food  and  the  h'ttle 
love  she  needs.  See  how  much  the  family  with  its 
morality  demand  from  us!  It  throws  us  on  our  own  re- 
sources, it  gives  us  neither  shelter  nor  happiness,  and  yet, 
in  our  loneliness,  we  must  live  according  to  the  laws 
which  it  has  planned  for  itself  alone.  We  must  still 
crouch  in  the  corner,  and  there  wait  patiently  until  a  re- 
spectful wooer  happens  to  come.  Yes,  wait.  And  mean- 
while the  war  for  existence  of  body  and  soul  is  consum- 
ing us.  Ahead  we  see  nothing  but  sorrow  and  despair, 
and  yet  shall  we  not  once  dare  to  give  what  we  have  of 
youth  and  strength  to  the  man  for  whom  our  whole  being 
cries?  Gag  us,  stupefy  us,  shut  us  up  in  harems  or  in 
cloisters  —  and  that  perhaps  would  be  best.  But  if  you 
give  us  our  freedom,  do  not  wonder  if  we  take  advantage 
of  it. 

But  morality  and  the  family  never  understand 
the  Magdas.  Least  of  all  does  the  old  Colonel 
understand  his  daughter.  Rigid  in  his  false  no- 
tions and  superstitions,  wrought  up  with  distress, 
he  is  about  to  carry  out  his  threat,  when  a  stroke 
of  apoplexy  overtakes  him. 

^  In  "  Magda,"  Hermann  Sudermann  has 
given  to  the  world  a  new  picture  of  modern  wo- 
manhood, a  type  of  free  motherhood.  As  such 
the  play  is  of  great  revolutionary  significance,  not 


4; 


-v^wmp. 


Kt-.i^ 


8o 


Hermann  Sudermann 


alone  to  Germany,  but  to  the  universal  spirit  of 
a  newer  day. 

THE  FIRES  OF  ST.  JOHN 

In  "  The  Fires  of  St.  John,"  Sudermann  does 
not  go  as  far  as  in  "  Magda."  Nevertheless  the 
play  deals  with  important  truths.  Life  does  not 
always  draw  the  same  conclusions;  life  is  not  al- 
ways logical,  not  always  consistent.  The  function 
of  the  artist  is  to  portray  Life  —  only  thus  can  he 
be  true  both  to  art  and  to  life. 

In  this  drama  we  witness  the  bondage  of  grati- 
tude,—  one  of  the  most  enslaving  and  paralyzing 
factors.  Mr.  Brauer,  a  landed  proprietor,  has  a 
child,  Gertrude,  a  beautiful  girl,  who  has  always 
lived  the  sheltered  life  of  a  hothouse  plant.  The 
Brauers  also  have  an  adopted  daughter,  Marie, 
whom  they  had  picked  up  on  the  road,  while  travel- 
ing on  a  stormy  night.  They  called  her  "the 
calamity  child,"  because  a  great  misfortune  had 
befallen  them  shortly  before.  Mr.  Brauer's 
younger  brother,  confronted  with  heavy  losses,  had 
shot  himself,  leaving  behind  his  son  George  and  a 
heavily  mortgaged  estate.  The  finding  of  the 
baby,  under  these  circumstances,  was  considered 
by  the  Brauers  an  omen.  They  adopted  it  and 
brought  it  up  as  their  own. 

This  involved  the  forcible  separation  of  Marie 


II  m,  m 


m 


The  Fires  of  St.  John 


8i 


from  her  gypsy  mother,  who  was  a  pariah,  an  out- 
cast beggar.  She  drank  and  stole  in  order  to  sub- 
sist. But  with  it  all,  her  mother  instinct  was 
strong  and  it  always  drove  her  back  to  the  place 
where  her  child  lived.  Marie  had  her  first  shock 
when,  on  her  way  home  from  confirmation,  the 
ragged  and  brutalized  woman  threw  herself  be- 
fore the  young  girl,  crying,  "  Mamie,  my  child,  my 
Mamie  I  "  It  was  then  that  Marie  realized  her 
origin.  Out  of  gratitude  she  consecrated  her  life 
to  the  Brauer^ 

Marie  never  forgot  for  a  moment  that  she  owed 
everything  —  her  education,  her  support  and  hap- 
piness—  to  her  adopted  parents.  She  wrapped 
herself  around  them  with  all  the  intensity  and  pas- 
sion of  her  nature.  She  became  the  very  spirit  of 
the  house.  She  looked  after  the  estate,  and  de- 
voted herself  to  little  Gertrude,  as  to  her  own  sis- 
ter. 

Gertrude  ^  enti^ged  to  marry  her  cousin 
George,  .nd  every ihiiig  is  beautiful  and  joyous  in 
the  household.  No  one  suspects  that  Marie  has 
been  in  love  with  the  v«'ui;ig  man  ever  since  her 
childhood.  However,  because  of  her  gratitude  to 
her  benefactors,  she  stifle:-  ntr  nature,  hardens  her 
heart,  and  locks  her  fr-ilsngs  behind  closed  doors, 
as  it  were.  And  when  Gtrtrude  is  about  to  marry 
George,  Marie  throws  herself  into  the  work  of  fix- 
ing up  a  home  for  the  young  people,  to  surround 


82 


Hermann  Sudermann 


them  with  sunshine  and  joy  iV  their  new  love  life. 

Accidentally  Marie  discovers  a  manuscript  writ- 
ten  by  George,  wherein  he  discloses  his  deep  love 
tor  her.  She  learns  that  he,  even  as  she,  has  no 
other  thought,  no  other  purpose  in  life  than  his 
love  for  her.  But  he  also  is  bound  by  gratitude 
for  his  uncle  Brauer  who  had  saved  the  honor  of 
his  father  and  had  rescued  him  from  poverty. 
He  feels  it  dishonorable  to  refuse  to  marry  Ger- 
triide.  ' 

George.  All  these  years  I  have  struggled  and  de- 
prived myself  with  only  one  thing  in  view  —  to  be  free  — 
free  — and  yet  I  must  bow  — I  must  bow.  If  it  were 
not  for  the  sake  of  this  beautiful  child,  who  is  innocent 
ot  It  all.  I  would  be  tempted  to  — But  the  die  is  cast, 
the  yoke  is  read v  — and  so  am  II  ...  I,  too  am  a 
child  of  misery,  .-    calamity  child;  but  I  am  a  subject  of 

chanty.     I  accept  all  they  have  to  give Was  I  not 

picked  up  from  the  street,  as  my  uncle  so  kindly  informed 
me  for  the  second  time  — like  yourself?  Do  I  not  be- 
long  to  this  house,  and  am  I  not  smothered  with  the 
damnable  charity  of  my  benefactors,  like  yourself? 

It  is  St.  John's  night.  The  entire  family  Is 
gathered  on  the  estate  of  the  Brauers,  while  the 
peasants  are  making  merry  with  song  and  dance  at 
the  lighted  bonfires. 

It  is  a  glorious,  dreamy  night,  suggestive  of 
symbolic  meaning.  According  to  the  servant 
Kat,e,  It  is  written  that  "  whoever  shall  give  or  re- 


The  Fires  of  St.  John 


83 


ccive  their  first  kiss  on  St.  John's  eve,  their 
love  is  sealed  and  they  will  be  faithful  unto 
death." 

In  the  opinion  of  the  Pastor,  St.  John's  night 
represents  a  religious  pha'«,  too  holy  for  flippant 
pagan  joy. 

Pastor.     On  such  a  dreair.  •,  diflercnt  emotions 

arc  aroused  within  us.  Wc  see:n  to  be  able  to  look  into 
the  future,  and  imagine  ourselves  able  to  fathom  all  mys- 
tery and  heal  all  wounds.  The  common  becomes  ele- 
vated, our  wishes  become  fate;  and  now  we  ask  our- 
selves: What  is  it  that  causes  all  this  within  us  —  all 
these  desires  and  wishes?  It  is  love,  brotherly  love,  that 
has  been  planted  in  our  souls,  that  fills  our  lives:  and,  it 
is  life  itself.  Am  I  not  right?  And  now,  with  one 
bound,  I  will  come  to  the  point.  In  the  revelation  you 
will  find :  "  God  is  love."  Yes,  God  is  love ;  and  that 
is  the  most  beautiful  trait  of  our  religion  —  that  the 
best,  the  most  beautiful  within  us,  has  been  granted  us 
by  Him  above.  Then  how  could  I,  this  very  evening, 
so  overcome  with  feeling  for  my  fellow-man  —  how  could 
I  pass  Him  by?  Therefore,  Mr.  Brauer,  no  matter, 
whether  pastor  or  layman,  I  must  confess  my  inability 
to  grant  your  wish,  and  decline  to  give  you  a  genuine 
pagan  toast  — 

But  Christian  symbolism  having  mostly  de- 
scended from  primitive  pagan  custom,  George's 
view  is  perhaps  the  most  significant. 

George.    Since   the  Pastor  has  so  eloquently   with- 


v^: 


I? 


-'•KSS6--: 


MICROCOPY   RESOLUTION   TEST  CHART 

(ANSI  and  ISO  TEST  CHART  No.  2) 


1^ 
no 


US 


■  3.2 


14,0 


1^ 

2.0 
1.8 


^    /APPLIED  IM/IGE 


1653  Eost   Main  Street 

Roctiester,    New   York        14609       USA 

(716)   482  -  0300 -Phone 

(715)   288-  5989  -Fox 


Hermann  Sudermann 


drawn,  I  will  give  you  a  toast.  For,  you  see,  my  dear 
Pastor,  something  of  the  old  pagan,  a  spark  of  heathen- 
ism, is  still  glowing  somewhere  within  us  all.  It  has 
outlived  century  after  century,  from  the  time  of  the  old 
Teutons.  Once  every  year  that  spark  is  fanned  into, 
flame  — it  flames  up  high,  and  then  it  is  called  "The 
Fires  of  St.  John."  Once  every  year  we  have  "  free 
night."  Then  the  witches  ride  upon  their  brooms  — 
the  same  brooms  with  which  their  witchcraft  was  once 
driven  out  of  them  — with  scornful  laughter  the  wild 
hordes  sweep  across  the  tree-tops,  up,  up,  high  upon  the 
Blocksberg!     Then  it  ik,  when  in  our  hearts  awake  those 

wild    desires    which    our    fates    could    not    fulfill 

and,    understand    me    well,    dared    not    fulfill  —  then, 
no  matter  what  may  be  the  name  of  the  law  that  governs 
the  world  on  that  day,  in  order  that  one  single  wish  may 
become  a  reality,  by  whose  grace  we  prolong  our  miser- 
able  existence,   thousand   others  must  miserably  perish, 
part  because  they  were  never  attainable;  but  the  others, 
yes,  the  others,  because  we  allowed  them  to  escape  us 
like  wild  birds,  which,  though  already  in  our  hands,  but 
too  listless  to  profit  by  opportunity,  we  failed  to  grasp 
at  the  right  moment.     But  no  matter.     Once  every  year 
we   have   "free   night."    And   yonder   tongues   of   fire 
shooting  up  towards  the  heavens  — do  you  know  what 
they  are?    They  are  the  spirits  of  our  dead  perished 
wishes!    That  is  the  red  plumage  of  our  birds  of  para- 
dise we  might  have  petted  and  nursed  through  our  entire 
lives,  but  have  escaped  us!    That  is  the  old  chaos,  the 
heathenism  within  us;  and  though  we  be  happy  in  sun- 
shine and  according  to  law,  to-night  is  St.  John's  night. 


The  Fires  of  St.  John 


8S 


To  Its  ancient  pagan  fires  I  empty  this  glass.  To-night 
they  shall  burn  and  flame  up  high  — high  and  again 
high! 


George  and  Marie  meet.  They,  too,  have  had 
their  instinct  locked  away  even  from  their  own 
consciousness.  And  on  this  night  they  break  loose 
with  tremendous,  primitive  force.  They  are 
driven  into  each  other's  arms  because  they  feel 
that  they  belong  to  each  other ;  they  know  that  if 
they  had  the  strength  they  could  take  each  other  by 
the  hand,  face  their  benefactor  and  tell  him  the 
truth :  tell  him,  that  it  would  be  an  unpardonable 
crime  for  George  to  marry  Gertrude  when  he 
loves  another  woman. 

Now  they  all  but  find  courage  and  strength  for 
it,  when  the  pitiful  plaint  reaches  them,  "  Oh, 
mine  Mamie,  mine  daughter,  mine  child."  And 
Marie  is  cast  down  from  the  sublime  height  of  her 
love  and  passion,  down  to  the  realization  that  she 
also,  like  her  pariah  mother,  must  go  out  into  the 
world  to  struggle,  to  fight,  to  become  free  from 
the  bondage  of  gratitude,  of  charity  and  depend- 
ence. 

Not  so  George.  He  goes  to  the  altar,  like 
many  another  man,  with  a  lie  upon  his  lips.  He 
goes  to  swear  that  all  his  life  long  he  will  love, 
protect  and  shelter  the  woman  who  is  to  be  his 
wife. 


m 


'4 


ill 


86 


Hermann  Sudermann 


This  play  is  rich  in  thought  and  revolutionary 
significance.     For  h  it  not  true  that  we  are  all 
bound  by  gratitude,  tied  and  fettered  by  what  we 
think  we  owe  to  others  ?     Are  we  not  thus  turned 
into  weaklings  and  cowards,  and  do  we  not  enter 
into  new  relationships  with  lies  upon  our  lips? 
Do  we  not  become  a  lie  to  ourselves  and  a  lie  to 
those  we  associate  with?     And  whether  we  have 
the  strength  to  be  true  to  the  dominant  spirit, 
warmed   into   being' by   the   fires   of   St.   John- 
whether  we  have  the  courage  to  live  up  to  it  aK 
ways  or  whether  it  manifests  itself  only  on  oc- 
casion,  it  is  nevertheless  true  that  there  is  the  po- 
tentiality  of  freedom  in  the  soul  of  every  man  and 
every  woman;  that  there  is  the  possibility  of  great- 
ness and  fineness  in  all  beings,  were  they  not  bound 
and  gagged  by  gratitude,  by  duty  and  shams,—  a 
vicious  network  that  enmeshes  body  and  soul. 


'W'S 


GERHART  HAUPTMANN 


LONELY  LIVES 

GERHART  HAUPTMANN  is  the 
dramatist  of  whom  it  may  be  justly  said 
that  he  revolutionized  the  spirit  of  dram- 
atic art  in  Germany :  the  last  Mohican  of 
a  group  of  four  —  Ibsen,  Strindberg,  Tolstoy,  and 
Hauptmann  —  who  illumined  the  horizon  of  the 
nineteenth  century.  Of  these  Hauptmann,  un- 
doubtedly the  most  human,  is  also  the  most  uni- 
versal. 

It  is  unnecessary  to  make  comparisons  between 
great  artists:  life  is  sufficiently  complex  to  give 
each  his  place  in  the  great  scheme  of  things.  If, 
then,  I  consider  Hauptmann  more  human,  it  is 
because  of  his  deep  kinship  with  every  stratum  of 
life.  While  Ibsen  deals  exclusively  with  one  at- 
titude, Hauptmann  embraces  all,  understands  all, 
and  portrays  all,  because  nothing  human  is  alien 
to  him. 

Whether  it  be  the  struggle  of  the  transition 
stage  in  "  Lonely  Lives,"  or  the  conflict  between 
the  Ideal  and  the  Real  in  "  The  Sunken  Bell,"  or 

«7 


m 


fe'lt; 


**  G<TAart  Hauptmann 

Weave™" h"'^^™""'?    <"   ^"""^    !"    "The 

cu:eX„"rvrrbr;7%t°' ".''•' -- 

And  tha   becausfo/l,-    r  ""5""«'"  Tobeoy. 
We    M,  op°4^-raeJ|-o„^^^^ 

fl;at:?,.irr/ndittprot- 
Hr;iute.:^ircr"'?-^^^^^^^^ 

"is  fim  appear?„:t';  ?rrart?rf ' 
accounts  for  the  lov,.  =„j     ""anst,  but  it  also 

who™  he  was  a  batde  c^  f  7'°"  °^*'»'  '<> 
all  iniquity,  iniu^ticTi'nrwr^nf """  ""  ^«'""' 

every  figure  of  the  drama  """f"""""  Permeating 

i«t^?„;xtr.fer '  '""''^•"■ 

and  above  al.  a  search  ;f:;'er„fh    J""'  ',"""■ 
man  who  lives  in  th.  ,«  i        /'^"^"'  »  scientist,  a 

andisoutoTtVu^h't^lXl'r^tir'^' 
surroundings.  *wiicy  and  his  immediate 

vo"d  'Xo'lrth  ™'"',i°"''  ^'''■«'°-  -''  de- 
seals      H,  •    ^-  *"  "'"'''''  "  »  hook  with  seven 

i-to  simpfe  X,!!L'™J/;f '«'d  and  classified 

strong  or  weak.     How  en  Z/  ^"  V  ™'"> 
"ow  can  they  know  the  infinite 


Lonely  Lives 


89 


shades  between  strong  and  weak,  how  could  they 
grasp  the  endlew  variations  between  the  good  and 
the  bad?  To  them  hfe  is  a  daily  routine  of  wo^k 
and  prayer.  God  has  arranged  everything,  and 
Srwif"    everything.     Why    bother    your 

alUo  God.      What  pathos  in  this  childish  sin,- 

,„  JI'.^''  '""^  *''■■  '°"  ■'''*"'  A^y  """hip  him, 
and  they  consecrate  their  lives  to  their  only  C 
and  because  of  their  love  for  him,  also  to  hi'  wi  a 
and  the  newly  born  baby.  They  have  but  one 
sorrow:  their  son  has  turned  away  from  relgion 
St.ll  greater  their  grief  that  lah,  i,  an  admirer  of 
Darwm  Spencer  and  Haeckel  and  othTsuch 
men,— sinners,  heathens  all,  who  will  burn  in 

ronT,::tr'  "-"k  ^° """'« "-''  ^"'-d 

«on  from  the  punishment  of  God,  the  old  folks 
eontmuously  pray,  and  give  still  more  devorion 
and  love  to  their  erring  child 

offh^r^r/"'*"''"''  "'f'  '=  »  ''"•"if-l  type 
of  the  Gretchen,  reared  without  any  ideas  about 

We,  without  any  consciousness  of  her  position  in 

the  world,  a  tender,  helpless  flower.     She  loves 

/oA»:  he  IS  her  ideal,-  he  is  her  all.     But  she 

sphere,  nor  speak  his  language.     She  has  never 
dreamed  his  thoughts,- not  because  she  i"  no 
wiUmg  or  not  eager  to  give  the  man  all  that  he 


90 


Gerhart  Hauptmann 


i 


.'  ^ 


•1 


needs,  but  because  she  does  not  understand  and 
does  not  know  how. 

Into  this  atmosphere  comes  Anna  Mahr  like  a 
breeze  from  the  plains.  Anna  is  a  Russian  girl, 
a  woman  so  far  produced  in  Russia  only,  perhaps 
because  the  conditions,  the  life  struggles  of  that 
country  have  been  such  as  to  develop  a  different 
type  of  woman.  Anna  Mahr  has  spent  most  of 
her  life  on  the  firing  line.  She  has  no  conception 
of  the  personal:  she  is  universal  in  her  feelings 
and  thoughts,  with  deep  sympathies  going  out  in 
abundance  to  all  mankind. 

When  she  comes  to  the  Vockerats,  their  whole 
life  is  disturbed,  especially  that  of  John  Focketft, 
to  whom  she  is  like  a  balmy  spring  to  the  parched 
wanderer  in  the  desert.  She  understands  him, 
for  has  she  not  dreamed  such  thoughts  as  his, 
associated  with  men  and  women  who,  for  the  sake 
of  the  ideal,  sacrificed  their  lives,  went  to  Siberia, 
and  suffered  in  the  underground  dungeons? 
How  then  could  she  fail  a  Vockerat?  It  is  quite 
natural  that  John  should  find  in  Anna  what  his 
own  little  world  could  not  give  him,—  understand- 
ing, comradeship,  deep  spiritual  kinship. 

The  Anna  Mahrs  give  the  same  to  any  one,  be 
it  man,  woman  or  child.     For  theirs  is  not  a  feel- 
ing of  sex,  of  the  personal;  it  is  the  selfless,  the 
human,  the  all-embracing  fellowship. 
In  the  invigorating  presence  of  Anna  Mahr, 


Lonely  Lives 


9r 


John  Vockerat  begins  to  live,  to  dream  and  work. 
Another  phase  of  him,  as  it  were,  comes  into  be- 
ing;  larger  vistas  open  before  his  eyes,  and  his 
life  is  filled  with  new  aspiration  for  creative  work 
in  behalf  of  a  liberating  purpose. 

Alas,  the  inevitability  that  the  ideal  should  be 
besmirched  and  desecrated  when  it  comes  in  con- 
tact with  sordid  reality  I  This  tragic  fate  befalls 
Anna  Mahr  and  John  Vockerat. 

Old  Mother  Vockerat,  who,  in  her  simplicity 
of  soul  cannot  conceive  of  an  intimate  friendship 
between  a  man  and  a  woman,  unless  they  be  hus- 
band and  wife,  begins  first  to  suspect  and  insinuate, 
then  to  nag  and  interfere.  Of  course,  it  is  her 
love  for  John,  and  even  more  so  her  love  for  her 
son's  wife,  who  is  suffering  in  silence  and  wear- 
ing  out  her  soul  in  her  realization  of  how  little  she 
can  mean  to  her  husband. 

M^.her  Vockerat  interprets  Kitty's  grief  In  a 
different  manner:  jealousy,  and  antagonism  to 
the  successful  rival  is  her  most  convenient  explana- 
tion for  the  loneliness,  the  heart-hunger  of  love. 
But  as  a  matter  or  fact.  It  Is  something  deeper 
and  more  vital  that  Is  born  In  Kitty':  soul.  It  Is 
the  awakening  of  her  own  womanhood,  of  her 
personality. 

Kitty.  I  agree  with  Miss  Mahr  on  many  points.  She 
was  saying  lately  that  we  women  live  in  a  condition  of 
degradation.    I  think  she  is  quite  right  there.    It  is 


4i 


92 


Gerhart  Hauptmann 


what  I  feel  very  often.  ...  It's  as  dear  as  daylight 
that  she  is  right.  We  are  really  and  truly  a  despised  and 
ill-used  sex.  Only  think  that  there  is  still  a  law  — so 
she  told  me  yesterday  —  which  allows  the  husband  to 
inflict  a  moderate  amount  of  corporal  punishment  on  his 
wife. 

And  yet,  corporal  punishment  is  not  half  as 
terrible  as  the  punishment  society  inflicts  on  the 
Kittys  by  rearing  them  as  dependent  and  useless 
beings,  as  hot-house  flowers,  ornaments  for  a  fine 
house,  but  of  no  substance  lo  the  husband  and  cer- 
tainly of  less  to  her  children. 

And  Mother  Vockerat,  without  any  viciousness, 
instills  poison  into  the  innocent  soul  of  Kitty  and 
embitters  the  life  of  her  loved  son.  Ignorantly, 
Mother  Vockerat  meddles,  interfeies,  and  tram- 
ples upon  the  most  sacred  fee.  >s,  the  innocent 
joys  of  true  comradeship. 

And  all  the  time  John  and  Anna  are  quite 
unaware  of  the  pain  and  tragedy  they  are  the 
cause  of:  they  are  far  removed  from  the  com- 
monplace, petty  world  about  them.  They  walk 
and  discuss,  read  and  argue  about  the  wonders  of 
life,  the  needs  of  humanity,  the  beauty  of  the 
ideal.  They  have  both  been  famished  so  long: 
John  for  spiritual  communion,  Anna  for  warmth 
of  home  that  she  had  known  so  little  before,  and 
which  in  her  simplicity  she  has  accepted  at  the 
hand  of  Mother  Vockerat  and  Kitty,  oblivious  of 


Lonely  Lives  q« 

the  fact  that  nothing  Is  so  enslaving  as  hospitality 
piomptcd  by  a  sense  of  duty. 

A/mAf«Ar.  It  is  a  grcit  age  that  we  live  In.  That 
which  has  so  weighed  upon  peopi, 's  minds  and  darkened 
^e.r  hves  seems  to  me  to  be  gradually  disappearing. 
Do  you  not  think  so,  Dr.  Vockerat? 

John.     How  do  you  mean? 

Miss  Mahr.  On  the  one  hand  we  were  oppressed  by 
a  sense  of  uncertamty.  of  apprehension,  on  the  other  by 

dov.n,  .8  yielding  to  the  influence  of  something  like  a 

« u?L  f "'  r*  ^'^^ ' ''°"'"« •"  "p°"  -'~-- 

let  us  say  fro.Ti  the  twentieth  century 

John.     But  I  don't  find  it  possible  to  arrive  at  any 
red  joy  m  hfe  yet.     I  don't  know ^ 

Mus  Mahr  It  has  no  connection  with  our  individual 
fates~our  l.ttle  fates.  Dr.  Vockerat!...!  have 
somethmg  to  say  to  you  -but  you  are  not  to  get  angry- 
you  are  to  be  quite  quiet  and  good.  ...  Dr.  Vocker^ 
we  also  are  falling  into  the  error  of  weak  natur " 
rn,.  look  at  things  more  impersonally.  We  must  learn 
to  take  ourselves  less  seriously. 

John.     But  we'll  not  talk  about  that  at  present.  .  .  . 

gamed  to  this  cursed  conventionr.lity  ?  Are  people  in- 
Z  :  \''r'f^'  ''''  ^''"^  -"  ^  no  crime  ir  a 
and  no  ,er?  Do  parents  lose  by  their  son  becoming  a 
bette  wiser  man  r  Does  a  wife  lose  by  the  spiritual 
growth  of  her  husband?  P'f-uai 

Miss  Mahr.    You  are  both  right  and  wrong.  .  .  . 


,1  -l 


.4- 


94 


Gerhart  Hauptmann 


I 


Your^  parents  have  n  different  standard  from  you. 
Kitty's  again,  differs  from  theirs.  It  seems  to  me  that 
in  this  we  cannot  judge  for  them. 

John.  Yes,  but  you  have  always  said  yourself  that  one 
should  not  allow  one's  self  to  be  ruled  by  the  opi.ion  of 
others— -that  one  ought  to  be  independent? 

Miss  Mahr.  You  have  often  said  to  me  that  you  fore- 
see a  new,  a  nobler  state  of  fellowship  between  man  and 
woman. 

John.  Yes,  I  feel  that  it  will  come  some  time  — a 
relationship  in  which  the  human  will  preponderate  over 
the  animal  tie.  Animal  will  no  longer  be  united  to 
animal,  but  one  human  being  to  another.  Friendship  is 
the  foundation  on  which  this  love  will  rise  beautiful, 
unchangeable,  a  miraculous  structure.  And  I  foresee 
more  than  this —- something  nobler,  richer,  freer  still. 

Miss  Mahr.  But  will  you  get  anyone,  except  me,  to 
believe  this?  Will  this  prevent  Kitty's  grieving  herself 
to  death?  .  .  .  ^on't  let  us  speak  of  ourselves  at  all. 
Let  us  suppose,  quite  generally,  the  feeling  of  a  new, 
more  perfect  relationship  between  two  people  to  exist,  as 
it  were  prophetically.  It  is  only  a  feeling,  a  younn  and 
all  too  tender  plant  which  must  be  carefully  watched  and 
guarded.  Don't  you  think  so,  Dr.  Vockerat?  That  this 
planf  should  come  to  perfection  during  our  lifetime  is 
...  to  be  expected.  We  shall  not  see  or  taste  its  fruits. 
But  we  may  help  to  propagate  it  for  future  generations. 
I  could  imagine  a  person  accepting  this  as  a  life-task. 

John.    And  hence  you  conclude  that  we  must  part. 

Miss  Mahr.     I  did  not  mean  to  speak  of  ourselves. 
But  it  is  as  you  say  .  .  .  we  must  part.    Another  idea 


Lonely  Lives  ge 

...  had  sometimes  suggested  itself  to  me  too  .  .  . 
momentarily.  B.  I  could  not  entertain  it  now.  I  too 
have  felt  as  if  it  were  the  presentiment  of  better  things. 
And  since  then  the  old  aim  seems  to  me  too  poor  a  one 
for  us  —  tor  common,  to  tell  the  truth.  It  i-  e  com- 
ing down  from  the  mountain-top  with  its  widi  f.t  :  view, 
and  feeling  the  narrowness,  the  nearness  of  evv.ything  in 
the  valley. 

Those  who  feel  the  narrow,  stifling  atmosphere 
must  either  die  or  leave,  ^nna  Mahr  is  not  made 
for  the  valley.  She  must  live  on  the  heights. 
But  John  Fockerat,  harassed  and  whipped  on  by 
those  who  love  him  most,  Is  unmanned,  broken 
and  crushed.  He  clings  to  Anna  Mahr  as  one 
condemned  to  death. 

John,  Help  me,  Miss  A-  !  There  is  no  manliness, 
no  pride  left  in  me.  I  a  quite  changed.  At  this 
moment  I  am  not  even  the  man  I  was  before  you  came 
to  us.  The  one  feeling  left  in  me  is  disgust  and  weari- 
ness of  life.  Everything  has  lost  its  worth  to  me,  is 
soiled,  polluted,  desecrated,  dragged  through  the  mire. 
When  I  think  what  you,  your  presence,  your  words  made 
me,  I  feel  that  if  I  cannot  be  that  again,  then  —  then  all 
the  rest  no  longer  means  anything  to  me.  I  draw  a  line 
through  it  all  and  —  close  my  account. 

Miss  Mahr.  It  grieves  me  terribly,  Dr.  Vockerat,  to 
see  you  like  this.  I  hardly  know  how  I  am  to  help  you. 
But  one  thing  you  ought  to  remember  —  that  we  fore- 
saw this.  We  knew  :hat  we  must  be  prepared  for  this 
sooner  or  later. 


I 


96 


Gerhart  Hauptmann 


John.  Our  prophetic  feeling  of  a  new,  a  free  existence, 
a  far-oflF  state  of  blessedness  —  that  feeling  we  will  keep. 
It  shall  never  be  forgotten,  though  it  may  never  be  real- 
ized. It  shall  be  my  guiding  light;  when  this  light  is 
extinguished,  my  life  will  be  extinguished  too. 

Miss  Mahr.  John!  one  word  morel  This  ring  — 
was  taken  from  the  finger  of  a  dead  woman,  who  had 
followed  her  — her  husband  to  Siberia  — and  faithfully 
shared  his  suffering  to  the  end.  Just  the  opposite  to  our 
case.  ...  It  is  the  jonly  ring  I  have  ever  worn.  Its 
story  is  a  thing  to  think  of  when  one  feels  weak.  And 
when  you  look  at  it  —  in  hours  of  weakness  —  then  — 
think  of  her  —  who,  far  away  —  lonely  like  yourself  — 
is  fighting  the  same  secret  fight  —  Good-bye! 

But  John  lacks  the  strength  for  the  fight.  Life 
to  him  is  too  lonely,  too  empty,  too  unbearably 
desolate.     He  has  to  die  —  a  suicide. 

What  wonderful  grasp  of  the  deepest  and  most 
hidden  tones  of  the  human  soul!  What  signif- 
icance in  the  bitter  truth  that  those  who  struggle 
for  an  ideal,  those  who  attempt  to  cut  themselves 
loose  from  the  old,  from  the  thousand  fetters 
that  hold  them  down,  are  doomed  to  lonely 
lives  1 

Gerhart  Hauptmann  has  dedicated  this  play 
"  to  those  who  have  lived  this  life."  And  there 
are  many,  oh,  so  many  who  must  live  this  life, 
torn  out  root  and  all  from  the  soil  of  their  birth, 
of  their  surroundings  and  past.     The  ideal  they 


Lonely  Lives 


97 


see  only  in  the  distance  —  sometimes  quite  near, 
again  in  the  far-off  distance.  These  are  the  lonely 
lives. 

This   drama    also   emphasizes   the   important 
point  that  not  only  the  parents  and  the  wife  of 
John  Vockerat  fail  to  understand  him,  but  even 
his  own  comrade,   one  of  his  own  world,   the 
painter  Braun, —  the  type  of  fanatical  revolution- 
ist who  scorns  human  weaknesses  and  ridicules 
those  who   make   concessions  and  compromises. 
But  not  even  this  arch-revolutionist  can  grasp  the 
needs  of  John.     Referring  to  his  chum's  friend- 
ship   with    Anna,    Braun    upbraids    him.     He 
charges  John  with  causing  his  wife's  unhappiness 
and  hurting  the  feelings  of  his  parents.     This 
very  man  who,  as  a  propagandist,  demands  that 
every  one  live  up  to  his  ideal,  is  quick  to  condemn 
his  friend  when  the  latter,  for  the  first  time  in  his 
life,  tries  to  be  consistent,  to  be  true  to  his  own 
innermost  being. 

The  revolutionary,  the  social  and  human  sig- 
nificance of  "  Lonely  Lives  "  consists  in  the  les- 
son that  the  real  revolutionist, —  the  dreamer,  the 
creative  artist,  the  iconoclast  in  whatever  line- 
is  fated  to  be  misunderstood,  not  only  by  his  own 
kin,  but  often  by  his  own  comrades.  That  is  the 
doom  of  all  great  spirits:  they  are  detached 
from  their  environment.  Theirs  is  a  lonely  life 
—  the  life  of  the  transition  stage,  the  hardest  and 


ir. 


98 


Gerhart  Hauptmann 


i 


the  most  difficult  period  for  the  individual  as  well 
as  for  a  people. 

THE  WEAVERS 

When  "The  Weavers"  first  saw  the  light, 
pandemonium  broke  out  in  the  "  land  of  thinkers 
and  poets."  "What!"  cried  Philistia,  "  work- 
ingmen,  dirty,  emaciated  and  starved,  to  be  placed 
on  the  stage  I  Poverty,  in  all  its  ugliness,  to  be 
presented  as  an  after-dinner  amusement?  That 
is  too  much !  " 

Indeed  it  is  too  much  for  the  self-satisfied 
bourgeoisie  to  be  brought  face  to  face  with  the 
horrors  of  the  weaver's  existence.  It  is  too  much, 
because  of  the  truth  and  reality  that  thunders  in 
the  placid  ears  of  society  a  terrific  J'accusef 

Gerhart  Hauptmann  is  a  child  of  the  people; 
his  grandfather  was  a  weaver,  and  the  only  way 
his  father  could  escape  the  fate  of  his  parents 
was  by  leaving  his  trade  and  opening  an  inn. 
Little  Gerhart's  vivid  and  impressionable  mind 
must  have  received  many  pictures  from  the  stories 
told  about  the  life  of  the  weavers.  Who  knows 
but  that  the  social  panorama  which  Hauptmann 
subsequently  gave  to  the  world,  had  not  slum- 
bered in  the  soul  of  the  child,  gaining  form  and 
substance  as  he  grew  to  manhood.    At  any  rate 


-■ 


The  Weavers 


99 


i 


"  The  Weavers,"  like  the  canvases  of  Millet  and 
the  heroic  figures  of  Meunier,  represent  the  epic 
of  the  age-long  misery  of  labor,  a  profoundly 
stirring  picture. 

The  background  of  "The  Weavers"  is  the 
weaving  district  in  Silesia,  during  the  period  of 
home  mdustry  — a  gruesome  sight  of  human 
phantoms,  dragging  on  their  emaciated  existence 
almost  by  superhuman  effort.  Life  is  a  tenacious 
force  that  clings  desperately  even  to  the  most 
nieager  chance  in  an  endeavor  to  assert  itself 
But  what  is  mirrored  in  "  The  Weavers  "  is  so 
appalling,  so  dismally  hopeless  that  it  stamps  the 
damning  brand  upon  our  civilization. 

One  man  and  his  hirelings  thrive  on  the  sinew 
and  bone,  on  the  very  blood,  of  an  entire  com- 
munity.  The  manufacturer  Dreissiger  spends 
more  for  cigars  in  a  day  than  an  entire  family 
earns  in  a  week.  Yet  so  brutalizing,  so  terrible 
IS  the  effect  of  wealth  that  neither  pale  hunger 
nor  black  despair  can  move  the  master. 

There  is  nothing  in  literature  to  equal  the  cruel 
reality  of  the  scene  in  the  office  of  Dreissiger, 
when  the  weavers  bring  the  finished  cloth.  For 
hours  they  are  kept  waiting  in  the  stuffy  place, 
waiting  the  pleasure  of  the  rich  employer  after 
they  had  walked  miles  on  an  empty  stomach  and 
little  sleep.     For  as  one  of  the  men  says,  "  What's 


4t 


1 


% 


I 

'^ 

V^ 

!■! 

'  'X 

i   1 ; 
1 1   ? 

■-    *\ 

-f 

1 

i 

i 

1-'  1 

K 

lOO 


Gerhart  Hauptmann 


j't 


to  hinder  a  weaver  waltin'  for  an  hour,  or  for  a 
day?     What  el«e  Is  he  there  for?" 

Indeed  what  else,  except  to  be  always  waiting 
in  humility,  to  be  exploited  and  degraded,  always 
at  the  mercy  of  the  few  pence  thrown  to  them 
after  an  endless  wait. 

Necessity  knows  no  law.  Neither  does  it  know 
pride.  The  weavers,  driven  by  the  whip  of 
hunger,  bend  their  bacl^s,  beg  and  cringe  before 
their  "  superior." 

JVeaver's  wife.  No  one  can't  call  me  idle,  but  I  am 
not  fit  now  for  what  I  once  was.  I've  twice  had  a  mis- 
carriage. As  to  John,  he's  but  a  poor  creature.  He's 
been  to  the  shepherd  at  Zerlau,  but  he  couldn't  do  him 
no  good,  and  .  .  .  you  can't  do  more  than  you've  strength 
for.  .  .  .  We  works  as  hard  as  ever  we  can.  This  many 
a  week  I've  been  at  it  till  far  into  the  night.  An'  we'll 
keep  our  heads  above  water  right  enough  if  I  can  just 
get  a  bit  o'  strength  into  me.  But  you  must  have  pity 
on  us,  Mr.  Pfeifer,  sir.  You'll  please  be  so  very  kind  as 
to  let  me  have  a  few  pence  on  the  next  job,  sir?  Only 
a  few  pence,  to  buy  bread  with.  We  can't  get  no  more 
credit.    We've  a  lot  o'  little  ones. 

"  Suffer  little  children  to  come  unto  me." 
Christ  loves  the  children  of  the  poor.  The  more 
the  better.  Why,  then,  care  if  they  starve? 
Why  care  if  they  faint  away  with  hunger,  like 
the  little  boy  in  Dreissiget^s  office?  For  "little 
Philip  is  one  of  nine  and  the  tenth's  coming,  and 


i 


UNIVERSITY  OF  ViaORIA 

LIBRARY 

Victoria,  t.  C. 


The  Weavers 


lOI 


a 


the   rain   comes   through   their   roof  —  and   the 
mother  hasn't  two  shirts  among  the  nine." 

Who  is  to  blame  ?  Ask  the  Dreissigers.  They 
will  tell  you,  "The  poor  have  too  many  chil- 
dren."     Besides  — 


Dreissiger.  It  was  nothing  serious.  The  boy  is  all 
right  again.  But  all  the  '•ame  it's  a  disgrace.  The 
child's  so  weak  that  a  puff  of  wind  would  blow  him  over. 
How  people,  how  any  parents  can  be  so  thoughtless  is 
what  passes  my  comprehension.  Loading  him  with  two 
heavy  pieces  of  fustian  to  carry  six  good  miles!  No  one 
would  believe  it  that  hadn't  seen  it.  It  simply  means 
that  I  shall  have  to  make  a  rule  that  no  goods  brought 
by  children  will  be  taken  over.  I  sincerely  trust  that 
such  things  will  not  occur  again. —  Who  gets  all  the 
blame  for  it?  Why,  of  course  the  manufacturer.  It's 
entirely  our  fault.  If  some  poor  little  fellow  sticks  in 
the  snow  in  winter  and  goes  to  sleep,  a  special  correspond- 
ent arrives  post-haste,  and  in  two  days  we  have  a  blood- 
curdling story  served  up  in  all  the  papers.  Is  any  blame 
laid  on  the  father,  the  parents,  that  send  such  a  child  ?  — 
Not  a  bit  of  it.  How  should  they  be  to  blame?  It's  all 
the    manuf..  's    fault  —  he's    maae    the    scapegoat. 

They  flatter  tuc  weaver,  and  give  the  manufa  -er 
nothing  but  abuse  —  he's  a  cruel  man,  with  a  hea  ike 
a  stone,  a  dangerous  fellow,  at  whose  calves  every  cur  of 
a  journalist  may  take  a  bite.  He  lives  on  the  fat  of  the 
land,  and  pays  the  poor  weavers  starvation  wages.  In 
the  flow  of  his  eloquence  the  writer  forgets  to  mention 
that  such  a  man  has  his  cares  too  and  his  sleepless  nights; 


'  'I 


I 


^^U 


f 


102 


Gerhart  Hauptmann 


that  he  runs  risks  of  which  the  workman  never  dreams; 
that  he  is  often  driven  distracted  by  all  the  calculations 
he  has  to  make,  and  all  the  different  things  he  has  to  take 
into  account;  that  he  has  to  struggle  for  his  very  life 
against  competition;  and  that  no  day  passes  with-ut  some 
annoyance  or  some  loss.    And  think  of  the  manufactur- 
er s  responsibilities,  think  of  the  numbers  that  depend  on 
him,  that  look  to  him  for  their  daily  bread.     No,  No! 
none  of  you  need  wish  yourselves  in  my  shoes  — you 
would  soon  have  enough  of  it.     You  all  saw  how  that 
fellow,  that  scoundrel  Becker,  behaved.     Now  he'll  go 
and  spread  about  all  sorts  of  tales  of  my  hardhearted- 
ness,  of  how  my  weavers  are  turned  off  for  a  mere  trifle, 
without  a  moment's  notice.     Is  that  true?    Am  I  so  very 
unmerciful  ? 

The  weavers  are  too  starved,  too  subdued,  too 
terror-stricken  not  to  accept  Dreissiger's  plea 
in  his  own  behalf.  What  would  become  of  these 
living  corpses  were  it  not  for  the  rebels  like 
^^c^^r  to  put  fire,  spirit,  and  hope  in  them? 
Verily  the  Beckers  are  dangerous. 

Appalling  as  the  scene  in  the  office  of  Dreis- 
stger  is,  the  life  in  the  home  of  the  old  weaver 
Baumert  is  even  more  terrible.  His  decrepit  old 
Wite  his  idiotic  son  August,  who  still  has  to  wind 
spools,  his  two  daughters  weaving  their  youth  and 
-bloom  into  the  cloth,  and  Ansorge,  the  broken 
remnant  of  a  heroic  type  of  man,  bent  over  his 
baskets,  all  live  in  cramped  quarters  lit  up  only 


s 

I 

•a 


The  Weavers 


103 


by  two  small  windows.  They  are  waiting  anx- 
iously for  the  lew  pence  old  Baumert  is  to  bring, 
that  they  may  indulge  in  a  long-missed  meal. 
*'  What  .  .  .  what  .  .  .  what  is  to  become  of  us 
if  he  don't  come  home?"  laments  Mother 
Baumert.  "There  is  not  so  much  as  a  handful 
o'  salt  in  the  house  —  not  a  bite  o'  bread,  nor  a 
bit  o'  wood  for  the  fire." 

But  old  Baumert  has  not  forgotten  his  family. 
He  brings  them  a  repast,  the  first  "  good  meal  " 
they  have  had  in  two  years.  It  is  the  meat  of 
their  faithful  little  dog,  whom  Baumert  could  not 
kill  himself  because  he  loved  him  so.  But  hunger 
knows  no  choice;  Baumert  had  his  beloved  dog 
killed,  because  "  a  nice  little  bit  o'  meat  like  that 
does  you  a  lot  o'  good." 

It  did  not  do  old  Baumert  much  good.  His 
stomach,  tortured  and  abused  so  long,  rebelled, 
and  the  old  man  had  to  "  give  up  the  precious 
dog."  And  all  this  wretchedness,  all  this  horror 
almost  within  sight  of  the  palatial  hor  i  of  Dreis- 
siger,  whose  dogs  are  better  fed  thai  his  human 
slaves. 

Man's  endurance  is  almost  limitless.  Almost, 
yet  not  quite.  For  there  comes  a  time  when  the 
Baumerts,  even  like  their  stomachs,  rise  in  re- 
bellion, when  they  hurl  themselves,  even  though 
in  blind  fury,  against  the  pillars  of  their  prison 
house.     Such  a  moment  comes  to  the  weavers,  the 


I* 


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I 
i 


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ill 


I04 


Gerhart  Hauptmann 


M: 


most  patient,  docile  and  subdued  of  humanity, 
when  stirred  to  action  by  the  powerful  poem  read 
to  them  by  the  Jaeger. 

The  justice  to  us  weavers  dealt 

Is  bloody,  cruel,  and  hateful; 
Our  life's  one  torture,  long  drawn  out: 

For  Lynch  law  we'd  be  grateful. 

Stretched  on  the  rack  day  afte    day. 

Heart  sick  and  bodies  aching, 
Our  heavy  sighs  their  witness  bear 

To  spirit  slowly  breaking. 

The  Dreissigers  true  hangmen  are, 
Servants  no  whit  behind  them; 

Masters  and  men  with  one  accord 
Set  on  the  poor  to  grind  them. 

You  villains  all,  you  brood  of  hell  .  .  . 

You  fiends  in  fashion  human, 
A  curse  will  fall  on  all  like  you, 

Who  prey  on  man  and  woman. 

The  suppliant  knows  he  asks  in  vain, 

Vain  every  word  that's  spoken. 
"  If  not  content,  then  go  and  starve  — 

Oui-  rules  cannot  be  broken." 

Then  think  of  all  our  woe  and  want, 

O  ye,  who  hear  this  ditty! 
Our  struggle  vain  for  daily  bread 

Hard  hearts  would  move  to  pity. 


The  Weavers  105 

But  pity's  what  you've  never  known, — 
You'd  take  both  skin  and  clothing, 

You  cannibals,  whose  cru^l  deeds 
Fill  all  good  men  with  loathing. 

The  Dreissigers,  however,  will  take  no  heed. 
Arrogant  and  secure  in  the  possession  of  their 
stolen  wealth,  supported  by  the  mouthpieces  of 
the  Church  and  the  State,  they  feel  safe  from 
the  wrath  of  the  people  —  till  it  is  too  late,  but 
when  the  storm  breaks,  they  show  the  yellow 
streak  and  cravenly  run  to  cover. 

The  weavers,  roused  at  last  by  the  poet's  de- 
scription of  the?r  condition,  urged  on  by  tlie  in- 
spiring enthusiasm  of  the  Beckers  and  the  Jaegers, 
become  indifferent  to  the  threats  of  the  law  and 
ignore  the  soft  tongue  of  the  dispenser  of  the  pure 
word  of  God, — '*  the  God  who  provides  shelter 
and  food  for  the  birds  and  clothes  the  lilies  of  the 
field."  Too  long  they  had  believed  in  Him.  No 
wonder  Pastor  Kittelhaus  is  now  at  a  loss  to  under- 
stand the  weavers,  heretofore  "  so  patient,  so  hum- 
ble, so  easily  led."  The  Pastor  has  to  pay  the 
price  for  his  stupidity :  the  weavers  have  outgrown 
even  him. 

The  spirit  of  revolt  sweeps  their  souls.  It 
gives  them  courage  and  strength  to  attack  the  rot- 
ten structure,  to  drive  the  thieves  out  of  the  tem- 
ple, aye,  even  to  rout  the  soldiers  who  come  to 
save  the  sacred  institution  of  capitalism.     The 


:tt' 


I 


■i-ll 


io6 


Gerhart  Hanptmann 


I  » 


women,  too,  arc  imbued  with  the  spirit  of  revolt 
and  become  an  avenging  force.  Not  even  the 
devout  hithof  Old  Uilse,  who  attempts  to  stem 
the  t.de  w.th  his  blind  belief  in  his  Saviour,  can 
stay  them.  ' 

eno^ll^' t'i,   "^/^'u'  "'t^"^  "°'  ^°^  '°  ^  thankful 
enough  t.  The.,  for  that  Thou  hast  sparec'  us  this  night 

again  m  Thy  goodness  ...  an'  hast  had  pfty  on  u,  .  .  . 
an   hast  suffered  us  to  take  no  harm.    Thou  art  the  AIl- 
mcrciful,  an   we  are  poor,  sinful  children  of  men  — that 
bad  that  we  are  not  worthy  to  be  trampled  under  Thy 
feet.    Yet  Thou  art  our  loving  Father,  an'  Thou  wilt 
look  upon  us  an'  accept  us  for  the  sake  of  Thy  dear  Son 
our  Lord  and  Saviour  Jesus  Christ.     "Jesus'  blood  and 
nghteousness.  Our  covering  is  and  glorious  dress."    An' 
It  were  sometimes  too  sore  cast  down  under  Thy  chas- 
tenrng-when   the  fire  of  Thy  purification  burns  too 
ragm   hot-oh,  .  .y  it  not  to  our  charge;  forgive  us  our 
s.n.     Give  us  pat.ence,  heavenly  Father,  that  after  all 
these  sufferm  s  we  may  be  made  partakers  of  Thy  eternal 
blessedness.     Amen. 

The  tide  is  rushing  on.    Luise,  Old  Hilse's 
own  daughter-in-law.  is  part  of  the  tide. 

Luise.    You   an'  your  piety  an'   religion  — did   they 

serve  to  keep  the  life  in  my  poor  children?     In  rags  an' 

dirt  they  lay,  all  the  four -it  didn't  as  much  as  keep 

em  dry.^    Yes!    I  sets  up  to  be  a  mother,  that's  what  I 

do -an    if  youd  like  to  know  it,  that's  why  I'd  send 


The  Weavers 


107 


% 


all  the  manufacturers  to  hell  —  because  I  am  a  mother! 
—  Not  '  of  the  four  could  I  keep  in  life!  It  was 
cr>'tn'  more  than  breathin'  with  me  from  the  time  each 
poor  little  thing  came  into  the  world  till  death  took  pity 
on  it.  The  devil  a  bit  you  cared !  You  sat  there  prayin' 
and  singin',  and  let  me  run  about  till  my  feet  bled,  tryin' 
to  get  one  little  drop  o'  skim  milk.  How  many  hundred 
nights  has  I  lain  an'  racked  my  head  to  think  what  I 
could  do  to  cheat  the  churchyard  of  my  little  one  ?  What 
harm  h»j  a  baby  like  that  done  that  it  must  come  to  such 
a  miserable  end  —  eh?  An'  over  there  at  DittrichV 
they're  bathed  in  wine  an'  washed  in  milk.  No !  you  may 
talk  as  you  like,  but  if  they  begins  here,  ten  horses  won't 
hold  me  back.  An'  what's  more  —  if  there's  a  rush  on 
Dittrich's,  you  will  see  me  in  the  forefront  of  it  —  an' 
pity  the  man  as  tries  to  prevent  me  —  I've  stood  it  long 
enough,  so  now  you  know  it. 

Thus  the  tide  sweeps  over  Old  Hike,  as  it  must 
sweep  over  every  obstacle,  every  hindrance,  once 
labor  awakens  to  the  consciousness  of  its  solidaric 
power. 

An  epic  of  misery  and  revolt  never  before 
painted  with  such  terrific  force,  such  inclusive  art- 
istry. Hence  its  wide  human  appeal,  its  incon- 
trovertible indictment  and  its  ultra-revolutionary 
significance,  not  merely  to  Silesia  or  Germany,  but 
to  our  whole  pseudo-civilization  built  on  the  mis- 
ery and  exploitation  of  the  wealth  producers,  of 
Labor.     None  greater,  none  more  universal  than 


i 


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i  ^i 


«:hI 


io8  Gerhart  Hauptmann 

this  stirring,  all-embracing  message  of  the  most 
humanly  creative  genius  of  our  time  — Gerhart 
Hauptmann. 


THE  SUNKEN  BELL 

The  great  versatility  of  Gerhart  Hauptmann 
IS  perhaps  nowhere  so  apparent  as  in  "The 
Sunken  Bell,"  the  poetic  fairy  tale  of  the  tragedy 
of  Man,  a  tragedy  as  rich  in  symbolism  as  it  is 
reahstically  true  —  a  tragedy  as  old  as  mankind, 
as  elemental  as  man's  ceaseless  struggle  to  cut 
loose  from  the  rock  of  ages. 

Helnrich,  the  master  bell  founder,  is  an  idealist 
consumed  by  the  fire  of  a  great  purpose.  He  has 
already  set  a  hundred  bells  ringing  in  a  hundred 
different  towns,  all  singing  his  praises.  But  his 
restless  spirit  is  not  appeased.  Ever  it  soars  to 
loftier  heights,  always  yearning  to  reach  the  sun. 

Now  once  more  he  has  tried  his  powers,  and 
the  new  bell,  the  great  Master  Bell,  is  raised  aloft, 
--  only  to  sink  into  the  mere,  carrying  its  maker 
with  it. 

His  old  ideals  are  broken,  and  Heinrich  is  lost 
m  the  wilderness  of  life. 

Weak  and  faint  with  long  groping  in  the  dark 
woods,  and  bleeding,  Heinrich  reaches  the  moun- 
tarn  top  and  there  beholds  Rautendelein,  the  spirit 
of  freedom,  that  has  allured  him  on  in  the  work 


m 


The  Sunken  Beit 


109 


which  he  strove  — "  in  one  grand  Bell,  to  weld 
the  silver  music  of  thy  voice  with  the  warm  gold 
of  a  Sun-hoHday.  It  should  »  ,'c  been  a  master- 
work  1  I  failed,  then  wept  I  tears  of  blood." 
Ileinrich  returns  to  his  faithful  wife  Magda,  his 
children,  and  hir  village  friends  —  to  die.  The 
bell  that  sank  into  the  mere  was  not  made  for  the 
heights  —  it  was  not  fit  to  wake  the  answering 
echoes  of  the  peaks! 

Heinrich. 

•••••••• 

'Twas  for  the  •,  alley  —  not  the  mountain-top  I 
I  choose  to  die.    The  service  of  the  valleys 
Charms  me  no  longer,  .  .  .  since  on  the  peak  I  stood. 
Youth  —  a  new  youth  —  I'd  need,  if  I  should  live: 
Out  of  some  rare  and  magi    mountain  flower 
Marvelous  juices  I  should  need  to  press  — 
Heart-health,  and  strength,  and  the  mad  lust  of  triumph, 
Steeling  my  hand  to  work  none  yet  have  dreamed  of! 

Rautendelein,  the  symbol  of  youth  and  freedom, 
the  vision  of  new  strength  and  expression,  wakes 
Heinrich  from  his  troubled  sleep,  kisses  him  back 
to  life,  and  inspires  him  with  faith  and  courage 
to  work  toward  greater  heights. 

Heinrich  leaves  his  wife,  his  hearth,  his  native 
place,  and  rises  to  the  summit  of  his  ideal,  there 
to  create,  to  fashion  a  marvel  bell  whose  iron 
throat  shall  send  forth 


i 


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•J 


no 


Gerhart  Hauptmann 


if! 


The  first  wakfrj  peal 

Shall  shake  the  skies -when,  from  the  somber  clouds 

Ihat  weighed  upon  us  through  the  winter  night, 

Rivers  of  jewels  shall  go  rushing  down 

Into  a  million  hands  outstretched  to  clutch! 

Then  all  who  drooped,  with  sudden  power  inflamed, 

bhall  bear  their  treasure  homeward  to  their  huts 

There  to  unfurl,  at  last,  the  silken  banners. 

Waiting —  so  long,  so  |ong  — to  be  upraised. 



And  now  the  wondrous  chime  again  rings  out, 
Filling  the  air  with  such  sweet,  passionate  sound 
As  makes  each  breast  to  sob  with  rapturous  pain. 
It  sings  a  song,  long  lost  and  long  forgotten, 
A  song  of  home  — a  childlike  song  of  Love, 

Born  in  the  waters  of  some  fairy  well 

Known  to  all  mortals,  and  yet  heard  of  nonel 



And  as  it  rises,  softly  first,  and  low. 
The  nightingale  and  dove  seem  singing,  too; 
And  all  the  ice  in  every  human  breast ' 
Is  melted,  and  the  hate,  and  pain,  and  woe, 
Stream  out  in  tears. 

Indeed  a  wondrous  bell,  as  only  those  can  forge 
who  have  reached  the  mountain  top,—  they  who 
can  soar  upon  the  wings  of  their  imagination  high 
above  the  valley  of  the  commonplace,  above  the 
dismal  gray  of  petty  consideration,  beyond  the 
reach  of  the  cold,  stifling  grip  of  reality,—  higher, 
ever  higher,  to  kiss  the  sun-Iit  sky 


1 5 


ii 


The  Sunken  Bell 


III 


He'tnrich  spreads  his  wings.  Inspired  by  the 
divine  fire  of  Rautendelein,  he  all  but  reaches  the 
pinnacle.  But  there  is  the  Vicar,  ready  to  wrestle 
with  the  devil  for  a  poor  human  soul;  to  buy  it 
free,  if  need  be,  to  drag  it  back  to  its  cage  that  it 
may  never  rise  again  in  rebellion  to  the  will  of 
God. 

The  Vicar. 

Yo.'  shun  the  church,  take  refuge  in  the  mountains; 
This  in?nv  a  month  you  have  not  seen  the  home 
Where  your  poor  wife  sits  sighing,  while,  each  day, 
Your  children  drink  their  lonely  mother's  tears! 

• 
For  this  there  is  no  name  but  madness, 
And  wicked  madness.     Yes.     I  speak  the  truth. 
Here  stand  I,  Master,  overcome  with  horror 

At  the  relentless  cruelty  of  your  heart. 
Now  Satan,  aping  God,  hath  dealt  a  blow  — 

Yes,  I  must  speak  my  mind  —  a  blow  so  dread 

That  even  he  must  marvel  at  his  triumph. 

.  .  .  Now  —  I  have  done. 

Too  deep,  yea  to  the  neck,  you  are  sunk  in  sin ! 

Your  Hell,  decked  out  in  beauty  as  high  Heaven, 

Shall  hold  you  fast.     I  will  not  waste  more  words. 

Yet  mark  this,  Master:  witches  make  good  fuel. 

Even  as  heretics,  for  funeral-pyres. 

.  .  .  Your  ill  deeds, 
Heathen,  and  secret  once,  are  now  laid  bare. 
Horror  they  wake,  and  soon  there  shall  come  hate. 


i 


it- 


if 


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112 


Gerhart  Hauptmann 


ii<i 


!l     i 


1     i 


Then   go  your  way!    Farewell!    My  task  is  done. 
1  he  hemlock  of  your  sin  no  man  may  hope 
To  rid  your  soul  of.     May  God  pity  you! 
But  this  remember!    There's  a  word  named  rue! 
And  some  day,  some  day,  as  your  dreams  you  dream, 
A  sudden  arrow,  shot  from  out  the  blue 
Shall  pierce  your  breast!    And  yet  you  shall  not  d-V 
Nor  shall  you  live.     In  that  dread  day  you'll  curse 
All  you  now  cherish  —  God,  the  worP   your  work 
Your  wretched   self  you'll  curse.    T    .....  think  of 
me! 

That  bell  shall  ring  again!    Then  think  of  me! 

Barely  does  Heinrich  escape  the  deadly  clutch 
of  outlived  creeds,  superstitions,  and  conventions 
enibodied  in  the  Vicar,  than  he  is  In  the  throes  of 
other  foes  who  conspire  his  doom. 

Nature  herself  has  decreed  the  death  of  Hein- 
rich.  For  has  not  man  turned  his  back  upon  her, 
has  he  not  cast  her  off,  scorned  her  beneficial  of- 
ferings,  robbed  her  of  her  beauty,  devastated  her 
charms  and  betrayed  her  trust  — all  for  the 
ephemeral  glow  of  artifice  and  sham?  Hence 
Nature  too  is  Heinrkh's  foe.  Thus  the  Spirit 
of  the  Earth,  with  all  its  passions  and  lusts,  sym- 
bohzed  in  the  Wood  Sprite,  and  gross  materialism 
in  the  person  of  the  Nkkelmann,  drive  the  in- 
truder  back. 

The  fVood  Sprite. 
He  crowds  us  from  our  hills.     He  hacks  and  hews. 


The  Sunken  Bell  nj 

Digs  up  our  metals,  sweats,  a--"  smelts,  and  brews. 
The  earth-man  and  the  wat  he  takes 

To  drag  his  burdens,  and,  tc         ..-ss,  breaks. 



She  steals  my  cherished  flowers,  my  red-brown  ores, 
My  gold,  my  precious  stones,  my  resinous  stores. 
She  serves  him  like  a  slave,  by  night  and  day. 
'Tis  he  she  kisses  —  us  she  keeps  at  bay. 
Naught  stands  against  him.    Ancient  trees  he  fells. 
The  earth  quakes  at  his  tread,  and  all  the  dells 
Ring  with  the  echo  of  his  thunderous  blows. 
His  crimson  smithy  furnace  glows  and  shines 
Into  the  depths  of  my  most  secret  mines. 
What  he  is  up  to,  only  Satan  knows! 

The  Nickelmann. 
Brekekekex!     Hadst  thou  the  creature  slain, 
A-rotting  in  the  mere  lo.i?  since  he  had  lain — 
The  maker  of  the  bell,  beside  the  bell. 
And  so  when  next  I  had  wished  to  throw  the  stones. 
The  bell  h;  1  been  my  box  — the  dice,  his  bones! 

But  even  they  are  powerless  to  stem  the  tide  of 
the  Ideal :  they  are  helpless  In  the  face  of  Hein- 
rich's  new-born  faith,  of  his  burning  passion  to 
complete  his  task,  and  give  voice  to  the  thousand- 
throated  golden  peal. 

Heinrich  works  and  toils,  and  when  doubt  casts 
Its  black  shadow  athwart  his  path,  Rautendelein 
charms  back  hope.  She  alone  has  boundless  faith 
in  her  Balder,—  god  of  the  joy  of  Life  —  for  he 
is  part  of  her,  of  the  great  glowing  force  her  spirit 


i 


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I 


114  Gerhart  Hauptmann 

breathed  into  the  Heinrlchs  since  Time  was  born 
—  Liberty,  redeemer  of  man. 

Heinrich. 
I  am  thy  Balder? 

Make  me  beh-eve  it -make  me  know  ft.  child! 
Give  my  famt  soul  the  rapturous  joy  it  needs, 
To  nerve  it  to  its  task.     For.  as  the  hand, 
Toihng  with  tong  and  hammer,  on  and  on, 
To  hew  the  marble  and  to  guide  the  chiH 
Now  bungles  here,  now  there,  yet  may  uu\  halt. 

«;..„  „.    .  .  ,  ...  But  —  enough  of  this, 

^t.11  straight  and  steady  doth  the  smoke  ascend 
from  my  poor  human  sacrifice  to  heaven 
Should  now  a  Hand  on  high  reject  my  gift, 
Why,  ,t  may  do  so.     Then  the  priestly  robe 
Falls  from  my  shoulder -by  no  act  of  mine; 
While  I,  who  erst  upon  the  heights  was  set, 
Must  look  my  last  on  Horeb,  and  be  dumb! 

EnchaT  ^''T^X'Y    ^'^^'''    ^"^  '^^"^  ^hine  Art  I 
Enchantress!    F.ll  the  wine<up!    We  will  drink! 

Ay,  like  the  common  herd  of  mortal  men 
With  resolute  hands  our  fleeting  joy  we'll  grip! 
Uur  unsought  leisure  we  will  fill  with  life 
Not  waste  it,  as  the  herd,  in  indolence.      ' 
We  will  have  .nusic! 

While  Heinrich  and  Rautendelein  are  In  the 
ecstasy  of  their  love  and  work,  the  spirits 
weave  their  treacherous  web -they  threaten, 
they  plead,  they  cling,— spirits  whose  pain  and 


The  Sunken  Bell 


IIS 


grief  are  harder  to  bear  than  the  enmity  or 
menace  of  a  thousand  foes.  Spirits  that  entwine 
one's  heartstrings  with  tender  touch,  yet  are  heav- 
ier fetters,  more  oppressive  than  leaden  weights. 
Heinrich's  children,  symbolizing  regret  that  par- 
alyzes one's  creative  powers,  bring  their  mother's 
tears  and  with  them  a  thousand  hands  to  pull 
Heinrtch  down  from  his  heights,  back  to  the  val- 
ley. 

"The  bell!  The  bell!"  The  old,  long  buried 
bell  again  ringing  and  tolling.  Is  it  not  th.  '  ^ 
from  the  past?  The  superstitions  instilled  rrom 
birth,  the  prejudices  that  cling  to  man  with  cruel 
persistence,  the  conventions  which  fetter  the  wings 
of  the  idealist:  the  Old  wrestling  with  the  New 
for  the  control  of  man. 

•*  The  Sunken  Bell "  is  a  fairy  tale  in  its  poetic 
beauty  and  glow  of  radiant  color.  But  stripped 
of  the  legendary  and  symbolic,  it  is  the  life  story 
of  every  seeker  for  tnith,  of  the  restless  spirit  of 
rebellion  ever  striving  onward,  ever  reaching  out 
toward  the  sun-tipped  mountain,  ever  yearning 
for  a  new-born  light. 

Too  long  had  Heinrich  lived  in  the  valley.  It 
ha-  sapped  his  strength,  has  clipped  his  wings. 
"Too  late  I  Thy  heavy  burdens  weigh  thee 
down;  thy  dead  ones  are  too  mighty  for  thee." 
Heinrich  has  to  die.     "  He  who  has  flown  so  high 


I 


■"  'k 


wj 


ii^n 


i"- 


.,\A 


ii6 


Gerhart  Ifntiptmann 


II 


into  the  very  Light,  as  thou  hast  flown,  must  per- 
ish, if  he  once  fall  back  to  earth." 

Thus  speak   the   worldly   wise.     As   if  death 

could  still  the  burning  thirst  for  lij^ht;  as  if  the 

hunger  for  the  ideal  could  ever  be  appeased  by  the 

thought  of  destruction  1     '|"he  worldly  wise  never 

feel  the  irresistible  urge  to  dare  the  cruel  fates. 

With  the  adder  in  Maxim  (jorki's  "  Song  of  the 

Falcon"  they  sneer, '"  What   is   the  sky?     An 

empty  place.  .  .  .  Why  disturb  the  soul  with  the 

desire  to  soar  into  the  sky?  .  .  .  Queer  birds," 

they  laugh  at  the  falcons.     "  Not  knowing  the 

earth  and  grieving  on  it,  they  yearn  for  the  sky, 

seeking  for  light  in  the  sultry  desert.     For  it  is 

only  a  desert,  with  no  food  and  no  supporting 

place  for  a  living  body." 

The  Heinrichs  are  the  social  falcons,  and 
though  they  perish  when  they  fall  to  earth,  they 
die  in  the  triumphant  glory  of  having  beheld  the 
sun,  of  having  braved  the  storm,  defied  the  clouds 
and  mastered  the  air. 

The  sea  sparkles  m  the  glovving  light,  the  waves 
dash  against  the  shore.  In  their  lion-like  roar  a 
song  resounds  about  the  proud  falcons :  "  O  dar- 
ing Falcon,  in  the  battle  with  sinister  forces  you 
lose  your  life.  But  the  time  will  come  when  your 
precious  blood  will  illumine,  like  the  burning  torch 
of  truth,  the  dark  horizon  of  man;  when  your 


The  Sunken  Bell 


n? 


blood  8ha!l  inflame  many  brave  hearts  with  a  burn- 
ing  desire  for  freedom." 

The  time  when  the  peals  of  Heinrich's  Bell  will 
call  the  strong  and  daring  to  battle  for  light  and 
joy.  •♦  I  lark  I  .  .  .  Tis  the  music  of  the  Sun- 
bells'  song!  The  Sun  .  .  .  the  Sun  .  .  .  draws 
near!"  ...  and  though  "the  night  is  Ion;?," 
dawn  breaks,  its  first  rays  falling  on  the  dying 
Heinrichs. 


i 


m 


f!t: 


-1  ■  ^  i 


I"' 


III 


i 


I'' 
•  f 


FRANK  WEDEKIND 

THE  AWAKENING  OF  SPRING 

FRANK  WEDEKIND  is  perhaps  the 
most  daring  dramatic  spirit  in  Germany. 
Coming  to  the  fore  much  later  than  Sud- 
ermann  and  Hauptmann,  he  did  not  fol- 
low  in  their  path,  but  set  out  in  quest  of  new  truths. 
More  boldly  than  any  other  dramatist  Frank 
Wedekind  has  laid  bare  the  shams  of  morality 
m  reference  to  sex,  especially  attacking  the  igno- 
rance surrounding  the  sex  life  of  the  child  and 
Its  resultant  tragedies. 

Wedekind  became  widely  known  through  his 
great  drama  "  The  Awakening  of  Spring,"  which 
he  called  a  tragedy  of  childhood,  dedicating  the 
work  to  parents  and  teachers.     Verily  an  appro- 
priate dedication,  because  parents  and  teachers 
are,   m  relation  to  the  child's  needs,  the  most 
Ignorant  and  mentally  indolent  class.     Needless 
to  say,  this  element  entirely  failed  to  grasp  the 
social  significance  of  Wedekind's  work.     On  the 
contrary,  they  saw  in  it  an  invasion  of  their  tradi- 
tional  authority  and  an  outrage  on  the  sacred 
rights  of  parenthood. 

ii8 


The  Awakening  of  Spring  119 

The  critics  also  could  see  naught  in  Wedekind, 

except  a  base,  perverted,  almost  diabolic  nature 

bereft  of  all  finer  feeling.     But  professional  critics 

seldom  see  below  the  surface;  else  they  would 

discover  beneath  the  grin  and  satire  of  Frank 

Wedekmd  a  sensitive  soul,  deeply  stirred  by  the 

heart-rending  tragedies  about  him.     Stirred  and 

grieved  especially  by  the  misery  and  torture  of 

the  child,— the  helpless  victim  unable  to  explain 

the  forces  germinating  in  its  nature,  often  crushed 

and  destroyed  by  mock  modesty,  sham  decencies, 

and  the  complacent  morality  that  greet  its  blind 

gropings. 

Never  was  a  more  powerful  indictment  hurled 
against  society,  which  out  of  sheer  hypocrisy  and 
cowardice  persists  that  boys  and  girls  must  grow 
up  in  ignorance  of  their  sex  functions,  that  they 
must  be  sacrificed  on  the  altar  of  stupidity  and 
convention  which  taboo  the  enlightenment  of  the 
child  in  questions  of  such  elemental  importance 
to  health  ana  well-being. 

The  most  criminal  phase  of  the  indictment,  how- 
T^j  '*  '^^^  **  '^  generally  the  most  promising 
children  who  are  sacrificed  to  sex  ignorance  and 
to  the  total  lack  of  appreciation  on  the  part  of 
teachers  of  the  latent  qualities  and  tendencies  in 
the  child:  the  one  slaying  the  body  and  soul,  the 
other  paralyzing  the  function  of  the  brain;  and 


J 


I 


V  I -I, 


I20 


ii . 


i    ■  ' 


Frank  IVedekind 


1,    I 


"I 

M     4 


both  conspiring  to  give  to  the  world  mental  and 
physical  mediocrities. 

"  The  Awakening  of  Spring"  is  laid  in  three 
acts  and  fourteen  scenes,  consisting  almost  entirely 

W  ^'t-T"'  T""S^  '^"  '*^''^'-^"'  So  close  is 
Wedekind  to  the  soul  of  the  child  that  he  sue 
ceeds  ,n  unve.l.ng  before  our  eyes,  with  a  most 
gripping  touch,  Its  joys  and  sorrows,  its  h  )pes  and 
despair,  its  struggles  apd  tra^Tedies. 

The  play  deals  with  a  group  of  school  children 
just  entering  the  age  of  puberty,-  imaginative  be- 
ings    speculating    about    the    mysteries    of    life 
fVendla,   sent  to   her  grave  by  her  loving  but 
prudish   mother,   is   an   exquisite,   lovable   child; 
Melchior,  the  innocent  father  of  JFeudla's  unborn 
baby,  ,s  a  gifted  boy  whose  thirst  for  knowledge 
eads  him  to  inquire  into  the  riddle  of  life,  and 
to  share  his  observations  with  his  school  chums 
--  a  youth  who    in  a  free  and  intelligent  atmos^ 
phere,   might  have   developed   into   an   original 
thinker      That  such  a  boy  should  be  punished  as 
a  moral  pervert,  only  goes  to  prove  the  utter  un- 
fitness  of  our  educators  and  parents.     Morttz, 
Melchtor's  playfellow,  is  driven  to  suicide  because 
he  cannot  pass  his  examinations,  thanks  to  our 
stupid  and  criminal  system  of  education  which  con- 

'''Wl^Tu^  '^  '"'"'^  '°  '^^  b""f'"g  point. 

Wedekind  has  been  accused  of  exaggerating 

his  types,  but  any  one  familiar  with  child  life 


The  /i wakening  of  Spring  121 

knows  that  every  word  in  •'  The  Awakening  of 
J^pr.ng  ,s  vividly  true.  The  conversation  be- 
twcen  Melchior  and  Moritz,  for  instance,  is  typi- 
cal  of  all  boys  not  mentally  inert. 

Melchior.     I'd  like  to  know   why  wc  really  are  on 
earth ! 

Aforitz.  I'd  rather  be  a  cab-horse  than  go  to 
school!—  Why  do  wt  Ko  to  school?—  Wc  yo  to 
school  so  that  somebody  can  examine  us!—  And  why 
do  they  examine  us?-  In  order  that  we  may  fail, 
bevcn  must  fail,  because  the  upper  classroom  will  hold 
only  sixty.—  I  feel  so  queer  since  Christmas.—  The 
dev.1  take  me.  if  it  wer.  not  for  Papa.  I'd  pack  my 
bundle  and  go  to  Altoona.  to-day! 

Moritz.  Do  you  believe.  Melchior.  that  the  feclinR 
of  shame  m  .nan  is  only  a  product  of  his  education? 

M./fA,or.  I  was  thinking  over  that  for  the  first  time 
the  day  before  yesterday.  It  seems  to  mc  deeply  rooted  in 
human  nature.  Only  think,  you  must  appear  entirely 
clothed  before  your  best  friend.  You  wouldn't  do  so  if 
he  d.dn  t  do  the  same  thing.-  Therefore,  it's  more  or 
less  of  a  fashion. 

Moritz.     Have  you  experienced  ii^  yet? 

Melchior.     What  ? 

Moritz.     How  do  you  say  it? 

Melchior.     Manhood's  emotion? 

Moritz.     M  — 'hm. 

Melchior.     Certainly. 

Moritz.     I  also  .  .  . 

Melchior.     I've  known  that  for  a  long  while!—    AI- 
most  for  a  year. 


i! 


i; 


122 


Frank  IFedekind 


Moritt.    I  was  startled  as  if  by  lightning. 
MeUhior.     Did  you  dream? 

Moritz.    Only  for  a  little  while -of  legs  in  light 
blue  tights,  that  strode  over  the  cathedral  — to  be  cor- 
rect, I  thought  they  wanted  to  go  over  it.    I  only  saw 
them  for  an  instant. 
Melchior.    George  Zirschnitz  dreamed  of  his  mother. 
Montz.     Did  he  tell  you  that?  ...  I  thought  I  was 
incurable.     I  believed  I  was  suffering  from  an  inward 
hurt.—    Fmally  I  became  calm  enough  to  begin  to  jot 
down  the  recollections  of  my  life.    Yes,  yes.  dear  Mel- 
chior,  the  last  three  weeks  have  been  a  Gethsemane  for 
me.  .  .  .  Truly  they  play  a  remarkable  game  with  us. 
And  we're  expected  to  give  thanks  for  it.     I  don't  re- 
member to  have  had  any  longing  for  this  kind  of  excite- 
ment.    Why  didn't  they  k,  me  sleep  peacefully  until  all 
was  still  again.     My  dear  parents  might  have  had  a  bun- 
dred  better  children.     I  came  here,  I  don't  know  how, 
and  must  be  responsible  myself  for  not  staying  away.- 
Haven  t  you  often  wondered,  Melchior,  by  what  means 
we  were  brought  into  this  whirl? 
Melchior.     Don't  you  know  that  yet  either,  Moritz? 
Moritz.     How  should  I  know  it?    I  see  how  the  hens 
lay  eggs,  and  hear  that  Mamma  had  to  carry  me  under 
her    heart.    But    is    that    enough?  ...  I    have    gone 
through  Meyer's  "  Little  Encyclopedia  "  from  A  to  Z. 
Words  — nothing  but  words  and  words!    Not  a  single 
plain  explanation.    Oh,  this  feeling  of  shame!—    What 
good  to  me  is  an  encyclopedia  that  won't  answer  me  con- 
cerning the  most  important  question  in  life? 


■ 


I 


The  Awakening  of  Spring  123 

Yes,  of  what  good  is  an  encyclopedia  or  the 
other  wise  books  to  the  quivering,  restless  spirit 
of  the  child?  No  answer  anywhere,  least  of  all 
from  your  own  mother,  as  fVendla  and  many  an- 
other like  her  have  found  out. 

The  girl,  learning  that  her  sister  has  a  new 
baby,  rushes  to  her  mother  to  find  out  how  it  came 
into  the  world. 

fVendla.  I  have  a  sister  who  has  been  married  for 
two  and  a  half  years,  I  myself  have  been  made  an  aunt 
for  the  third  time,  and  I  haven't  the  least  idea  how  it  ail 
comes  about—  Don't  be  cross,  Mother  dear,  don't 
be  cross!  Whom  in  the  world  should  I  ask  but  you! 
Please  tell  me,  dear  Mother!  Tell  me,  dear  Mother! 
I  am  ashamed  foi  myself.  Please,  Mother,  speak! 
Don't  scold  mc  for  asking  you  about  it.  Give  me  an 
answer—  How  does  it  happen?—  How  does  it  all 
come  about?—  You  cannot  really  deceive  yourself  that 
I,  who  am  fourteen  years  old,  still  believe  in  the  stork. 

Frau  Bergmann.  Good  Lord,  child,  but  you  are  pecu- 
liar!— What  ideas  you  have!—  I  really  can't  do 
that! 

fVendla.  But  why  not,  Mother?—  Why  not?  — 
It  can't  be  anything  ugly  if  everybody  is  delighted  over  it! 

Frau  Bergmann.  O  — O  God,  protect  me!  — I  de- 
serve—  Go  get  dressed,  child,  go  get  dressed. 

Wendla.  I'll  go  — And  suppose  your  child  went  out 
and  asked  the  chimney  sweep? 

Frau   Bergmann.     But    that    would    be    madness!  — 


1^ 
I- j 


i 
4 


/ 

« 


124 


Frank  Wedekind 


t« 


Come  here,  child,  come  here,  I'll  tell  you!  I'll  tell  you 
everything-  ...  In  order  to  have  a  child -one  must 
love  the  man -to  whom  one  is  married -love  him 
I  tell  you  —  as  one  can  only  love  a  man !  One  must  love 
h.m  so  much  with  one's  whole  heart,  so-so  that  one 
cant  describe  .t!  One  must  love  him,  Wendla,  as  you 
at  your  age  are  still  unable  to  love -Now  you  know  it! 

How  much  JVendla  knew,  her  mother  found 
out  when  too  late. 

fFendla  and  Melchior,  overtaken  by  a  storm 
seek  shelter  in  a  haystack,  and  are  drawn  by  what 
Melchior  calls  the  "  first  emotion  of  manhood  " 
and  curiosity  into  each  other's  arms.  Six  months 
later  fVendla's  mother  discovers  that  her  child  is 
to  become  a  mother.  To  save  the  family  honor,  ' 
the  g,rl  ,s  promptly  placed  in  the  hands  of  a  quack 
who  treats  her  for  chlorosis. 

IVendla.     No,  Mother,  no!     I  know  it.     I  feel  it      I 
haven't  chlorosis.     I  have  dropsy-     I  won't  get  better. 
1  have  the  dropsy,  I  must  die,  Mother—    O.  Mother 
I  must  die!  ' 

Frau  Bergmann.  You  must  not  die,  child!  You 
must  not  die—    Great  heavens,  you  must  not  die! 

IVendla.     But  why  do  you  weep  so  frightfully,  then> 

Frau  Bergmann.  You  must  not  die,  child!  You 
haven  t  the  dropsy,  you  have  a  child,  girl!  You  have  a 
child!     Oh,  why  did  you  do  that  to  me? 

IVendla.     I  haven't  done  anything  to  you. 

Frau    Bergmann.    Oh,    don't    deny    it    any    more, 


i 


The  Awakening  of  Spring  125 

Wendla!-     I  know  everything.     See,  I  didn't  want  to 
'■-iy  a  word  to  you.—     Wendla,  my  Wendla  — ! 

tf'endtu.     But  it's  not  possible,  Mother.  ...  I  have 
loved  nobody  in  the  world  as  I  do  you,  Mother. 

The  pathos  of  it,  that  such  a  loving  mother 
should  be  responsible  for  the  death  of  her  own 
child  I  Yet  Frau  Bergmann  Is  but  one  of  the  many 
good,  pious  mothers  who  lay  their  children  to 
"  rest  in  God,"  with  the  inscription  on  the  tomb- 
stone:  ''Wendla  Bergmann,  born  May  5th, 
1878,  died  from  chlorosis,  Oct.  27,  1892. 
Blessed  are  the  pure  of  heart." 

Melchior,  like  Wendla,  was  also  "pure  of 
heart  " ;  yet  how  was  he  "  blessed  "  ?  Surely  not 
by  his  teachers  who,  discovering  his  essay  on  the 
mystery  of  life,  expel  the  boy  from  school.  Only 
Wedekind  could  Inject  such  grim  humor  Into  the 
farce  of  education  —  the  smug  Importance  of  the 
faculty  of  the  High  School  sitting  under  the  por- 
traits of  Rousseau  and  Pestalozzi,  and  pronounc- 
ing judgment  on  their  "  immoral  "  pupil  Melchior. 

Rector  Sonnenstich.  Gentlemen:  We  cannot  help 
moving  the  expulsion  of  our  guilty  pupil  before  the  Na- 
tional Board  of  Education;  there  are  the  strongest  reasons 
why  we  cannot:  we  cannot,  because  we  must  expiate  the 
misfortune  which  has  fallen  upon  us  already;  we  cannot, 
because  of  our  need  to  protect  ourselves  from  similar 
blows  in  the  future;  we  cannot,  because  we  must  chas- 
tise our  guilty  pupil  for  the  demoralizing  influence  he 


i 
i 


V 


» 


:  '•■  i  iiia 


126 


Frank  IVedekind 


oxcrt.d  upon  his  classmates ;  we  cannot,  above  all,  because 
we  must  lundcr  him  from  excrti\,^  the  same  influence 
upon  his  remaininp  classmates.  VVc  cannot  ignore  the 
charpc  —  and  this,  Rcntlomcn,  is  possibly  the  weightiest 
of  all —  on  any  pretext  concerning  a  ruined  career,  be- 
cause it  is  our  duty  to  protect  ourselves  from  an  epidemic 
of  suicide  similar  to  that  which  has  broken  out  recently 
in  various  grammar  schools,  and  which  until  to-day  has 
mocked  all  attempts  of  the  teachers  to  shackle  it  by  any 
means  known  to  advanced  education.  .  .  .  Wc  see  our- 
selves under  the  necessity  of  judging  the  guilt-laden  that 
wc  may  not  be  judged  guilty  ourselves.  .  .  .  Arc  you  the 
author  of  this  obscene  manuscript? 

Mchhior.  Yes  —  I  request  you,  sir,  to  show  me  any- 
thing obscene  in  it. 

Sonncnstich.  You  have  as  little  respect  for  the  dig- 
nity of  your  assembled  teachers  as  you  have  a  proper 
appreciation  of  mankind's  innate  sense  of  shame  which 
belongs  to  a  moral  world. 

Melchior's  mother,  a  modern  type,  has  greater 
faith  in  her  child  than  in  school  education.  But 
even  she  cannot  hold  out  against  the  pressure  of 
public  opinion;  still  less  against  the  father  of 
Mclchior,  a  firm  believer  in  authority  and  dis- 
cipline. 

Herr  Gabor.  Anyone  who  can  write  what  Melchior 
wrote  must  be  rotten  to  the  core  of  his  being.  The  mark 
is  plain.  A  half-healthy  nature  wouldn't  do  such  a 
thing.    None  of  us  are  saints.    Each  of  us  wanders  from 


1 


The  Aivakeninfj  of  Spring  127 

the  straight  path.  His  writing,  on  .Ju-  ,ontr.-.ry 
tramples  on   principles.  writing   is  no  cvi.lcnrr  o\ 

a  chance  shp  m  the  usual  way;  it  sets  forth  with  .Irra.l- 
ful  plainness  and  a  frankly  definite  purpr,sc  that  natural 
longing,  that  propensity  for  inuiioraiitv,  hrcause  it  is  im- 
morality. His  writing  manif -sts  that  exceptional  state 
of  spiritual  corruption  which  we  jurists  classify  under 
the  term      mora!  imbecility." 

Between  the  parents  and  the  educators, 
Mekhwr  IS  martyred  even  as  IVendla.  lie  is 
sent  to  the  House  of  Correction;  hut  hcing  of 
sturdier  stock  than  the  girl,  he  survives. 

Not  so  his  chum  Moritz.     Harassed  hy  the  im- 
pelhng  forces  of  his  a/akened  nature,  and  unahle 
^  grapple  with  the  torturous  tasks  demanded  hy 
.     educators  "  at  the  most  critical  period  of  his 
lite,  Moritz  fails  in  the  examinations.     He  can- 
not face  his  parents:  they  have  placed  all  their 
hope  in  him,  and  have  lashed  him,  by  the  subtle 
cruelty  of  gratitude,  to  the  grindstone  till  his  brain 
reeled.     Moritz  is  the  third  victim  in  the  tragedy 
the  most  convenient  explanation  of  which  is  given 
by  Pastor  Kahlbauch  in  the  funeral  sermon. 
Pastor  Kahlbauch.     He   who   rejects   the   grace   with 

It  tlf:"'"'''"^  ^'''^"  ^^^  "--'^  ^hose  born   in 
^n,  he  shall  die  a  spiritual  death!-     He,  however,  who 

n  willful  carnal  abnegation  of  God's  proper  honor,  lives 

for  and  serves  evil,  shall  die  the  death  of  the  body!- 

Who,  however,  wickedly  throws  away  from  him  the  cross 


I.'  : 


4 
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a:        ■ 

\ 


which  the  All  Merciful  has  laid  upon  him  for  his  sins, 
VLfily,  verily,  I  say  unto  you,  he  shall  die  the  everlasting 
death!  Let  us,  however,  praise  the  All  Gracious  Lor4 
and  thank  Him  for  His  inscrutable  grace  in  order  that 
we  may  travel  the  thorny  path  more  and  more  surely. 
For  as  truly  as  this  one  died  a  triple  death,  as  truly  will 
the  Lord  God  conduct  the  righteous  unto  happiness  and 
everlasting  life.  .  .  . 

It  is  hardly  nedessary  to  point  out  the  revolu- 
tionary significance  of  thi^  extraordinary  play.  It 
speaks  powerfully  for  itself.  One  need  only  add 
that  "  The  Awakening  of  Spring  "  has  done  much 
to  dispel  the  mist  enveloping  the  paramount  issue 
of  sex  in  the  education  of  the  child.  To-day  it  is 
conceded  even  by  conservative  elements  that  the 
conspiracy  of  silence  has  been  a  fatal  mistake. 
And  while  sponsors  of  the  Church  and  of  moral 
fixity  still  clamor  for  the  good  old  methods,  the 
message  of  Wedekind  is  making  itself  felt 
throughout  the  world,  breaking  down  the  barriers. 

The  child  is  the  unit  of  the  race,  and  only 
through  its  unhampered  unfoldment  can  humanity 
come  into  its  heritage.  "The  Awakening  of 
Spring"  is  one  of  the  great  forces  of  modern 
times  that  is  paving  the  way  for  the  birth  of  a  free 
race. 


1^ 


THE  FRENCH  DRAMA 

MAETERLINCK 

TO  those  who  are  conversant  with  the 
works    of    Maeterlinck    it    may    seem 
rather  far-fetrhed  to  discuss  him  from 
the  point  of  view  of  re-  olutionary  and 
social  significance.     Above  all,  Maeterlinck  is  the 
portrayer  of  the  remote,   the  poet  of  symbols; 
therefore  it  may  seem  out  of  place  to  bring  him 
down  to  earth,  to  simplify  him,  or  to  interpret  his 
revolutionary  spirit.     To  some  extent  these  ob- 
jections  have  considerable  weight;  but  on  the  other 
hand,  if  one  keeps  in  mind  that  only  those  who 
go  to  the  remote  are  capable  of  understanding  the 
obvious   one  will  readily  see  how  very  significant 
Maeterlinck  is  as  a  revolutionizing  factor.     Be- 
sides, we  have  Maeterlinck's  own  concept'  n  of 
the  significance  of  the  revolutionary  spirit.     In  a 
very  masterly  article  called  "  The  Social  Revolu- 
tion,    he  discusses  the  objection  on  the  part  of  the 
conservative  section  of  society  to  the  Introduction 
of  revolutionary  methods.     He   says   that  they 

129 


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Maeterlinck 


would  like  us  to  "  go  slow  " ;  that  they  object  to 
the  use  of  violence  and  the  forcible  overthrow 
of  the  evils  of  society.  And  Maeterlinck  answers 
in  these  significant  words: 

"  We  are  too  ready  to  forget  that  the  heads- 
men of  misery  are  less  noisy,  less  theatrical,  but 
infinitely  more  numerous,  more  cruel  and  active 
than  those  of  the  most  terrible  revolutions." 

Maeterlinck  realizes  that  there  are  certain 
grievances  in  society,  iniquitous  conditions  which 
demand  immediate  solution,  and  that  if  we  do  not 
solve  them  with  the  readiest  and  quickest  methods 
at  our  command,  they  will  react  upon  society  and 
upon  life  a  great  deal  more  terribly  than  even  the 
most  terrible  revolutions.  No  wonder,  then,  that 
his  works  were  put  under  the  ban  by  the  Catholic 
Church  which  forever  sees  danger  in  light  and 
emancipation.  Surely  if  Maeterlinck  were  not 
primarily  the  spokesman  of  truth,  he  would  be 
embraced  by  the  Catholic  Church. 

In  "  Monna  Vanna  "  Maeterlinck  gives  a  won- 
derful picture  of  the  new  woman  —  not  the  new 
woman  as  portrayed  in  the  newspapers,  but  the 
new  woman  as  a  reborn,  regenerated  spirit;  the 
woman  who  has  emancipated  herself  from  her 
narrow  outlook  upon  life,  and  detached  herself 
from  the  confines  of  the  home;  the  woman,  in 
short,  who  has  become  race-conscious  and  there- 
fore understands  that  she  is  a  unit  in  the  great 


Monna  Fanna 


131 


ocean  of  life,  and  that  she  must  ♦•ake  her  place  as 
an  independent  factor  in  order  to  rebuild  and  re- 
mold life.  In  proportion  as  she  learns  to  become 
race-conscious,  does  she  become  a  factor  in  the 
reconstruction  of  society,  valuable  to  herself,  to 
her  children,  and  to  the  race. 

Pisa  is  subdued  by  the  forces  of  Florence;  it  is 
beaten  and  conquered.  The  city  is  in  danger  of 
being  destroyed,  and  the  people  exposed  to  famine 
and  annihilation.  There  is  only  one  way  of  sav- 
ing Pisa.  Marco  Colonna,  the  father  of  the  Com- 
mander of  Pisa,  brings  the  ultimatum  of  the 
enemy  : 

Marco.  Know,  then,  that  I  saw  Prinzivalle  and  spoke 
with  him.  ...  I  thought  to  find  some  barbarian,  arro- 
gant and  heavy,  always  covered  with  blood  or  plunged 
in  drunken  stupor;  at  best,  the  madman  they  have  told 
us  of,  whose  spirit  was  lit  up  at  times,  upon  the  battle- 
field, by  dazzling  flashes  of  brilliance,  coming  no  man 
knows  whence.  I  thought  to  meet  the  demon  of  combat, 
blind,  unreasoning,  vain  and  cruel,  faithless  and  disso- 
lute. ...  I  found  a  man  who  bowed  before  me  as  a 
loving  disciple  bows  before  the  master.  He  is  lettered, 
eager  for  knowledge,  and  obedient  to  the  voice  of  wis- 
dom. ...  He  loves  not  war;  his  smile  speaks  of  under- 
standing and  gentle  humanity.  He  seeks  the  reason  of 
passions  and  events.  He  looks  into  his  own  heart;  he  is 
endowed  with  conscience  and  sincerity,  and  it  is  against 
his  will  that  he  serves  a  faithless  State.  ...  I  have  told 


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you  that  Prinzivalle  seems  wise,  that  he  is  humane  and 
reasonable.     But  where  is  the  wise  man  that  hath  not 
his  private  madness,  the  good  man  to  whom  no  monstrous 
idea  has  ever  come?    On  one  side  is  reason  and  pity  and 
justice;  on  the  other  —  ah!  there  is  desire  and  passion 
and  what  you  will  —  the  insanity  into  which  we  all  fall 
at  times.     I  have  fallen  into  it  myself,  and  shall,  belike, 
again  —  so  have  you.     Man  is  made  in  that  fashion.    A 
grief  which  should  not  be  within  the  experience  of  man  is 
on  the  point  of  touching  you.  .  .  .  Hearken:  this  great 
convoy,  the  victuals  that  I  have  seen,  wagons  running 
over  with  corn,  others  full  of  wine  and  fruit;  flocks  of 
sheep  and  herds  of  cattle,   enough  to  feed   a  city  for 
months;  all  these  tuns  of  powder  and  bars  of  lead,  with 
which  you  may  vanquish  Florence  and  make  Pisa  lift  her 
head  —  all  this  will  enter  the  city  to-night,  ...  if  you 
send  in  exchange,  to  give  her  up  to  Prinzivalle  until  to- 
morrow's dawn,  ...  for  he  will  send  her  back  when 
the  first  faint  gray  shows  in  the  sky,  .  .  .  only,  he  exacts 
that,  in  sign  of  victory  and  submission,  she  shall  come 
alone,  and  her  cloak  for  all  her  covering.  .  .  . 

Guido.    Who?    Who  shall  thus  come? 

Marco.     Giovanna. 

Guido.     My  wife?    Vanna? 

Marco.    Ay,  your  Vanna. 

Guido  Colonna,  in  the  consciousness  that  the 
woman  belongs  to  him,  that  no  man  may  even 
look,  with  desire,  upon  her  dazzling  beauty,  re- 
sents this  mortal  insult.  He  is  willing  that  all 
the  other  women  should  face  danger,  that  the  lit- 


Monna  Vanna  i^o 

tie  children  of  Pisa  should  be  exposed  to  hunger 
and  destruction,  rather  than  that  he  give  up  his 
possession.  But  Monna  Vanna  does  not  hesitate. 
When  she  is  before  the  issue  of  saving  her  people, 
she  does  not  stop  to  consider.  She  goes  intc  the 
enemy  s  tent,  as  a  child  might  go,  without  con- 
sciousness of  self,  imbued  solely  with  the  impulse 
to  save  her  people. 

The  meeting  of  Monna  Vanna  and  Prinzivalle 
IS  an  exquisite  interpretation  of  love  —  the  sweet- 
ness,  purity,  and  fragrance  of  Prinzivalle' s  love 
for  the  woman  of  his  dream -the  one  he  had 
known  when  she  was  but  a  child,  and  who  re- 
mained  an  inspiring  vision  all  through  his  career. 
He  knows  he  cannot  reach  her;  he  also  knows  that 
h  will  be  destroyed  by  the  political  intriguers  of 
Florence,  and  he  stakes  his  all  on  this  one  step 
o  satisfy  the  dream  of  his  life  to  see  Vanna  and 
in  return  to  save  Pisa. 

Prinzivalle  Had  there  come  ten  thousand  of  you  into 
^y  tent,  all  clad  alike,  all  equally  fair,  ten  thousTd  ^ 
ters  whom  even  their  mother  would  not  know  apart.  I 

call  ve  .h      •  "  r?'""^^  '^''  ^  ^^^°-^  'W 

can  hve  thus  m  a  man's  heart?    For  yours  lived  so  in 

nj.ne  that  each  day  it  changed  as  in  reaUife  -  the  jlge 

of  today  replaced  that  of  yesterday-it  blossomed  ou' 

lb  came  always  fa,rer;  and  the  years  adorned  ft  with 

all  that  they  add  to  a  child  that  grows  in  grace  and 


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beauty.  But  when  I  saw  you  again,  it  seemed  to  me  at 
first  that  my  e3'es  deceived  me.  My  memories  were  so 
fair  and  so  fond  —  but  they  had  been  too  slow  and  too 
timid  —  they  had  not  dared  to  give  you  all  the  splendor 
which  appeared  so  suddenly  to  dazzle  me.  I  was  as  a 
man  that  recalled  to  mind  a  flower  he  had  but  seen  in 
passing  through  a  garden  on  a  gray  day,  and  should  be 
suddenly  confronted  with  a  hundred  thousand  as  fair  in 
a  field  bathed  with  sunshine.  I  saw  once  more  your 
hair,  your  brow,  your  eyes,  and  I  found  all  the  soul  of 
the  face  I  had  adored  —  but  how  its  beauty  shames  that 
which  I  had  treasured  in  silence  through  endless  days, 
through  years  whose  only  light  was  a  memory  that  had 
taken  too  long  a  road  and  found  itself  outshone  by  the 
reality!  ...  Ah!  I  knew  not  too  well  what  I  meant 
to  do.  I  felt  that  I  was  lost  —  and  I  desired  to  drag 
with  me  all  I  could.  .  .  .  And  I  hated  you,  bee  i  the 
love.  .  .  .  Yes,  I  should  have  gone  to  the  tno  uad  it 
not  been  you.  .  .  .  Yet  any  other  would  have  seemed 
odious  to  me  —  you  yourself  would  hav  had  to  be  other 
than  you  are.  ...  I  lose  my  reason  when  I  think  of 
it.  .  .  .  One  word  would  have  been  enough  that  was 
different  from  your  words  —  one  gesture  that  was  not 
yours  —  the  slighf^st  thing  would  have  inflamed  my  hate 
and  let  loose  the  monster.  But  when  I  saw  you,  I  saw 
in  that  same  moment  that  it  was  impossible. 

Fanna.  I  felt  a  change,  too.  ...  I  marveled  that  I 
could  speak  to  you  as  I  have  spoken  since  the  first  mo- 
ment. ...  I  am  silent  by  nature  —  I  have  never  spoken 
thus  to  any  man,  unless  it  be  to  Marco,  Guido's 
father.  .  .  .  And  even  with  him  it  is  not  the  same.     He 


Monna  Vanna 


>3S 


has  a  thousand  dreams  that  take  up  all  his  mind,  .  .  . 
and  we  have  talked  but  a  ft-w  times.  Tiic  others  have 
always  a  desire  in  their  eyes  that  will  not  suffer  one  to 
tell  them  that  one  loves  them  and  would  fain  know  what 
they  have  in  their  hearts.  In  your  eyes,  too,  a  lonjjinc 
burns;  but  it  is  not  the  same — it  does  not  affright  mc 
nor  fill  me  with  loathing  I  felt  at  once  that  I  knew 
you  before  I  remembered  that  I  had  ever  seen  you.  .  .  . 

Vanna,  awed  by  the  character  and  personality 
of  this  despised  and  hated  outlaw,  pleads  with 
him  to  come  with  her  to  Pisa  under  the  protec- 
tion of  herself  and  her  husband.  She  is  sure  diat 
he  will  be  safe  with  them,  and  that  he  will  be 
hailed  as  the  redeemer  of  the  peo^  of  Pisa. 
Like  innocent  children  they  walk  to  their  doom. 

Vanna  is  honored  by  the  people  whom  she  has 
saved,  but  scorned  by  her  husband  who,  like  the 
true  male,  does  not  credit  her  story. 

Vanna.  Hear  me,  I  say !  I  have  never  lied  —  but 
to-day,  above  all  days,  I  tell  the  deepest  truth,  the  truth 
that  can  be  told  but  once  and  brinps  life  or  death.  .  .  . 
Hearken,  Guido,  then  —  and  look  upon  me,  if  you  have 
never  known  me  until  this  hour,  the  first  and  only  hour 
when  you  have  it  in  your  power  to  love  me  as  I  would 
be  loved.  I  speak  in  the  name  of  our  life,  of  all  that  I 
am,  of  all  that  you  are  to  me.  .  .  .  Be  strong  enough 
to  believe  that  which  is  incredible.  This  man  has  spared 
my  honor.  .  .  .  He  had  all  power  —  I  was  given  over 
to  him.     Yet  he  has  not  touched  me  —  I   have  issued 


\4 


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Maeterlinck 


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III 


from  his  tent  as  I  might  from  my  brother's  house.  .  .  . 
I  gave  him  one  only  kiss  upon  the  brow  —  and  he  gave 
it  me  again. 

Guido.     Ah,  that  was  what  you  were  to  tell  us  —  that 
was    the   miracle!     Ay,    already,    at   the   first   words,    I 
divined    something    beneath    them     that     I    understood 
not.  ...  It  passed  me  like  a  flash  —  I  took  no  heed  of 
it  .  .  .  But  I  see  now  that  I  must  look  more  closely. 
So,  when  he  had  you  in  his  tent,  alone,  with  a  cloak  for 
all    your   covering,    all   night   long,   you   say   he   spared 
you  ?  .  .  .  Am  I  a  man  to  believe  that  the  stars  are  frag- 
ments of  hellebore,  or  that  one  may  drop  something  into 
a  well  and  put  out  the  moon?  .  .  .  What!  a  man  de- 
sires you  so  utterly  that  he  will  b<tray  his  country,  stake 
all  that  he  has  for  one  single  night,  ruin  himself  forever, 
and  do  it  basely,  do  such  a  deed  as  no  man  ever  thought 
to  do  before  him,  and  make  the  world  i.  inhabitable  to 
himself  forever!     And  this  man  has  you  there  in  his  tent, 
alone  and  defenseless,  and  he  has  but  this  single  night 
that  he  has  bought  at  such  a  price  —  and  he  contents 
himself  with  a  kiss  upon  the  brow,  and  comes  even  In'ther 
to  make  us  give  him  credence!     No,  let  us  reason  fairly 
and  not  too  long  mock  at  misfortune.     If  he  asked  but 
that,  what  need  was  there  that  he  should  plunge  a  whole 
people  into  sadnrss,  sink  me  in  an  abyss  of  misery  such 
that  I  have  come  from  it  crushed  and  older  by  ten  years? 
Ah !     Had  He  craved  but  a  kiss  upon  the  brow,  he  might 
have  saved  us  without  torturing  us  so!     He  had  but  to 
come  like  a  god  to  our  rescue.  ...  But  a  kiss  upon  the 
brow  is  not  demanded  and  prepared  for  after  his  fash- 


Monna  Fanna 


137 


ion.  .  .  .  The  truth  is  found  in  our  cries  of  anguish  and 
despair.  .  .  . 

It  is  only  at  this  psychological  moment,  a  mo- 
ment that  sometimes  changes  all  our  conceptions, 
all  our  thoughts,  our  very  life,  that  Monna 
Fanna  feels  the  new  love  for  Prhizivallc  stirring 
in  her  soul,  a  love  that  knows  no  doubt.  The 
conception  of  such  a  love  is  revolutionary  in 
the  scope  of  its  possibilities  —  a  love  that  is  preg- 
nant with  the  spirit  of  daring,  of  freedom,  that  lifts 
woman  out  of  the  ordinary  and  inspires  her  with 
the  strength  and  joy  of  molding  a  new  and  free 
race. 


Mr 


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CHANTECLER 

IN  view  of  the  progress  the  modern  drama 
has  made  as  an  ihterpreter  of  social  ideas  and 
portrayer  of  the  human  struggle  against  in- 
ternal and  external  barriers,  it  is  difficult  to 
say  what  the  future  may  bring  in  the  way  of  great 
dramatic  achievement.  So  far,  however,  there  is 
hardly  anything  to  compare  with  "  Chantecler  "  in 
philosophic  depth  and  poetic  beauty. 

Chantecler  is  the  Intense  Idealist,  whose  mission 
is  light  and  truth.  His  soul  is  aglow  with  deep 
human  sympathies,  and  his  great  purpose  in  life 
is  to  dispel  the  night.  He  keeps  aloof  from 
mediocrity;  indeed,  he  has  little  knowledge  of  his 
immediate  surroundings.  Like  all  great  vision- 
aries, Chantecler  is  human,  "all  too  ''  an"; 
therefore  subject  to  agonizing  soul  depressions  and 
doubts.  Always,  however,  he  regains  confidence 
and  strength  when  he  is  close  to  the  soil;  when 
he  feels  the  precious  sap  of  the  earth  surging 
through  his  being.  At  such  times  he  feels  the 
mysterious  power  that  gives  him  strength  to  pro- 

138 


Chantecler 


139 


claim  the  truth,  to  call  forth  the  golden  glory  of 
the  day. 

The  pheasant  hen  is  the  eternal  female,  bewitch- 
ingly  beautiful,  but  self-centered  and  vain.  True 
to  her  destiny,  she  must  possess  the  man  and  is 
jealous  of  e\  erything  that  stands  between  her  and 
him  she  loves.  She  therefore  employs  every  de- 
vice to  kill  Chantecler's  faith  in  himself,  for,  as 
she  tells  him,  "  You  can  be  all  in  all  to  me,  but 
nothing  to  the  dawn." 

The  blackbird  is  the  modernist  who  has  become 
blase,  mentally  and  spiritually  empty.  He  is  a 
cynic  and  scoffer;  without  principle  or  sincerity 
himself,  he  sees  only  small  and  petty  intentions  in 
everybody  else. 

Patou,  true  and  stanch,  is  the  symbol  of  honest 
conviction  and  simplicity  of  soul.  He  loathes  the 
blackbird  because  he  sees  in  him  the  embodiment 
of  a  shallow,  superficial  modernity,  a  modernity 
barren  of  all  poetic  vision,  which  aims  only  at  ma- 
terial success  and  tinseled  display,  without  regard 
for  worth,  harmony  or  peace. 

The  peacock  is  the  overbearing,  conceited,  in- 
tellectual charlatan ;  the  spokesman  of  our  present- 
day  culture;  the  idle  prater  of  "  art  for  art's  sake." 
As  such  he  sets  the  style  and  pace  for  the  idle 
pursuits  of  an  idle  class. 

The  guinea  hen  is  none  other  than  our  most 
illustrious  society  lady.     Sterile  of  mind  and  empty 


nil 
m 

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4 


II 


140 


Rostand 


of  soul,  she  flits  from  one  social  function  to  an- 
other, taking  up  every  fad,  clinging  to  the  coat- 
tails  of  every  newcomer,  provided  he  represent 
station  and  prestige.  She  is  the  slave  of  fashion, 
the  imitator  of  ideas,  the  silly  hunter  after  effect  — 
in  short,  the  parasite  upon  the  labor  and  efforts 
of  others. 

The  night  birds  are  the  ignorant,  stupid  main- 
tamers  of  the  old.  They  detest  the  light  because 
It  exposes  their  mediocrity  and  stagnation.  They 
hate  Chantecler  because,  as  the  old  owl  remarks, 
Simple  torture  it  is  to  hear  a  brazen  throat  for- 
ever  reminding  you  of  what  you  know  to  be  only 
too  true  I  "  This  is  a  crime  mediocrity  never  for- 
gives,  and  it  conspires  to  kill  Chantecler. 

The  woodpecker  is  our  very  learned  college 
professor.  Dignified  and  important,  he  loudly 
proclaims  the  predigested  food  of  his  college  as 
the  sole  source  of  all  wisdom. 

The  toads  represent  the  cringing,  slimy  hangers- 
on,  the  flunkies  and  lickspittles  who  toady  for  the 
sake  of  personal  gain. 

"Chantecler,"  then,  is  a  scathing  arraignment 
of  the  emptiness  of  our  so-called  wisc  and  cultured, 
of  the  meanness  of  our  conventional  lies,  the  petty 
jealousies  of  the  human  breed  in  relation  to  each 
other  At  the  same  time  "  Chantecler  "  character- 
izes  the  lack  of  understanding  fo:,  and  apprecia- 
tion  of,  the  ideal  and  the  idealists  —  the  mob 


Chant  ecier  jaj 

spirit,  whether  on  top  or  at  the  bottom,  using  the 
most  cruel  and  contemptible  meth-ls  to  drag  the 
idealist  down;  to  revile  and  persecute  him  — aye, 
even  to  kill  him —  for  the  unpardonable  sin  of 
proclaiming  the  Ideal.  They  cannot  forgive 
Chantecler  for  worshiping  the  sun : 

Chantecler. 
Blaze  forth  In  glory!  .  .  . 

0  thou  that  driest  the  tears  of  the  meanest  among  weeds 
And  dost  of  a  dead  flower  make  a  living  butterfly  — 
Thy  miracle,  wherever  almond-trees 

Shower  down  the  wind  their  scented  shreds, 
Dead  petals  dancing  In  a  living  swarm 

1  worship  thee,  O  Sun!  whose  ample  light, 
Blessing  every  forehead,  ripening  every  fruit, 
Entering  every  flower  and  every  hovel. 
Pours  Itself  forth  and  yet  Is  never  less. 

Still  spending  and  unspent  — like  mother's  love! 

I  sing  of  thee,  and  will  be  thy  high  priest, 
Who  disdalnest  not  to  glass  thy  shining  face 
In  the  humble  basin  of  blue  suds, 
Or  see  the  lightning  of  thy  last  farewell 
Reflected  in  an  humble  cottage  pane! 



Glory  to  thee  in  the  vineyards!    Glory  to  thee  in  the 

nelds ! 
Glory  among  the  grass  and  on  the  roofs, 
In  eyes  of  lizards  and  on  wings  of  swans,— 
Artist  who  making  splendid  the  great  things 


h\ 


I  0 
IP  f'^ 


142 


RostonJ 


V't 


Forgets  not  to  make  exquisite  tlic  small! 

'Tis  thou  that,  cuttinp  out  a  silhouette, 

To  all  thou  hramest  on  .lost  fasten  this  dark  twin, 

Doubling  the  number  of  delightful  shapes. 

Appointing  to  each  thing  its  shadow, 

More  charnu'ng  often  than  itself. 

I  praise  thee.  Sun !     Thou  sheddest  roses  on  the  air, 
Diamonds  on  the  stream,  enoiiantment  on  the  hill  ; 
A  poor  dull  tree  thou  takest  ami  turnest  to  green  rapture, 
O  Sun,  without  whose  goKIen  magic  —  things 
Would  be  no  more  than  what  they  are! 

In  the  atmosphere  of  persecution  and  hatred 
ChmUccUr  continues  to  hope  and  to  work  for  his 
suhhme  mission  of  bringing  the  golden  day.     But 
his  passion  for  the  pheasant  hen  proves  his  Water- 
loo.    It  is  through  her  that  he  grows  weak,  dis- 
closing  his  secret.     Because  of  her  he  attends  the 
silly  five  o'clock  function  at  the  guinea  hen's,  and 
IS  mvolved  in  a  pri^e  fight.     His  passion  teaches 
him  to  understand  life  and  the  frailties  of  his  fel- 
low  creatures.    He  learns  the  greatest  of  all  truths, 
--  that  "  It  is  the  struggle  for,  rather  than  the 
attainment  of,  the  ideal,  which  must  forever  in- 
spire the  sincere,  honest  idealist."     Indeed,  it  is 
life  which  teaches  Chanteeler  that  if  he  cannot 
wake  the  dawn,  he  must  rouse  mankind  to  greet 
the  sun. 

Chanteeler  finds  himself  in  a  trying  situation 


lit 


Chantecler 


H3 


when  he  comes  into  the  KatherlnR  at  the  guinea 
hen  J  five  o'clock  tea,  to  meet  the  pompous,  over- 
bearmg  cocks   representing  the   various  govern- 
merits.     AVhen  he  arrives  in  the  midst  of  these 
distmguished  society  people,  he  is  plied  with  the 
query,   '•How  do  you  sing?     Do  you   sing  the 
itahan  school  or  the  French  school  or  the  German 
school?"     Poor  Chantecler,  in  the  simplicity  of 
his  Idealism,  replies,  "  I  don't  know  how  I  sing, 
but  I  know  why  I  sing."     Why  need  the  chante- 
clers  know  how  they  sing?     They  represent  the 
truth,  which  needs  no  stylish  clothes  or  expensive 
feathers.     That  is  the  difference  between  truth 
and  falsehood.     Falsehood  must  deck  herself  out 
beyond  all  semblance  of  nature  and  reality. 

Chantecler.  I  say  .  ,  .  that  these  resplendent  Ren- 
tleme..  ^  manufactured  wares,  the  work  of  merchants 
with  highly  complex  brains,  who  to  fashion  a  ridiculous 
chicken  have  taken  a  win^  from  that  one,  a  topknot  from 
this.  I  say  that  in  such  Cocks  nothing  remains  of  the 
true  Cock.  They  are  Cocks  of  shreds  and  patches,  idle 
bnc-a-brac,  fit  to  figure  in  a  catalogue,  not  in  a  barnvard 
vv.th  .ts  decent  dunghill  and  Its  dog.  I  say  that  those 
befnzzled,  beruffled,  bedeviled  Cocks  were  never  stroked 

and  chenshed   by  Nature's  maternal  hand And   I 

add  that  the  whole  duty  of  a  Cock  is  to  be  an  embodied 
crrmson  cry !  And  when  a  Cock  is  not  that,  it  matters 
litt  e  that  h.s  comb  be  shaped  like  a  toadstool,  or  his 
quills  twisted  like  a  screw,  he  will  soon  vanish  and  be 


i 
t 

¥.1 


0 

n 


H 

^ 


144 


Rostand 


iii 


heard  of  no  more,  having  been  nothing  but  a  variety  of 
a  variety! 

The  Game  Cock  appears.  He  greets  Chante- 
cler  with  the  announcement  that  he  is  the  Cham- 
pion fighter,  that  he  has  killed  so  and  so  many 
Cocks  in  one  day  and  an  equal  number  on  other 
occasions.  Chantecler  replies  simply,  •*  I  have 
never  killed  anything.  But  as  I  have  at  different 
times  succored,  defended,  protected  this  one  and 
that,  I  might  perhaps  be  called,  in  my  fashion, 
brave." 

The  fight  begins.     Chantecler  is  wounded  and 
about  to  succumb,  when  suddenly  all  the  guests 
present  rush  to  Chantecler  for  protection :  the  com- 
mon    enemy,    the    Ha'^k    is    seen    to    approach. 
Chantecler  mistakes  the  cowardice  of  those  who 
come  to   seek  his   aid,    for   friendship;  but  the 
moment  the  danger  is  over,  the  crowd  again  cir- 
cles around  the  fighters,  inciting  the  Game  Cock 
to  kill  Chantecler.     But  at  the  critical  moment  the 
Game  Cock  mortally  wounds  himself  with  his  own 
spurs,  and  is  jeered  and  driven  off  the  scene  by  the 
same  mob  that  formerly  cheered  him  on.     Chante- 
cler, weak   and   exhausted  from  loss  of  blood, 
disillusioned  and  stung  to  the  very  soul,  follows 
the  pheasant  hen  to  the  Forest. 

Soon  he  finds  himself  a  henpecked  husband:  he 
may  not  crow  to  his  heart's  content  any  more,  he 


Chantecler 


H5 


may  not  wake  the  sun,  for  his  lady  love  is  jealous. 
The  only  .me  he  can  crow  is  when  her  eyes  are 
closed  in  sleep.  7  a  «»c 

But  leave  it  to  the  pheasant  hen  to  ferret  out  a 

ITh;^  'f '"/  ^^^"^^'l^r's  conversation 
with  the  tt;oo^/,^f^^r,  she  is  furious.  "I  will 
not  let  the  sun  defraud  me  of  my  love,"  she 
cr.es.  But  Chantecler  replies,  "  There  is  no  great 
love  outs.de  of  the  shadow  of  the  ideal."  She 
makes  use  of  her  beauty  and  charm  to  win  him 

"  cll .'  '""•    /u'  '"^^^'"^  ^'"^   ^"d  PJ^ads. 
abouTtirsuT?  •' '^  '"°"^-     ^'^  ""^  ^-  ^-^" 
aa«/.c/.r  hears  the  nightingale  and,  like  all 
great  artists,  he  recognizes  her  wonderful  voice, 
her  .nsp.ring  powers  compared  with  which  his  own 
must  seem  hard  and  crude.     Suddenly  a  shot  is 
heard   .nd  the  little  bird  falls  dead  to  the  ground 
Chantecler. s  heart-broken.     And  as  he  mourns 
the  sweet  smger,  the  dawn  begins  to  break.    The 
pheasant  hen  covers  him  with  her  wing,  to  keen 

b:rau::";hr '"'  t ""  ^'^^'  ^-^  ^^-  ^^^^^ 

because  the  sun  has  risen  without  his  crowing 

The  shock  IS  terrible  to  poor  Chantecler,  yl    .vj 

doo^^^^^^^^^^         ^^  ^'^  -  tremendous'cLk-a. 

;;  Why  are  you  crowing?  »  the  hen  asks. 

As  a  warning  to  myself,  for  thrice  'lave  I 

denied  the  thing  I  love." 


m 


146 


Rostand 


.SI      Kv'u  '.'  '".  '^"P"'''-     ^"'  "o^  he  hears 

than  the  first  "Learn,  comrade,  this  sorrowful 
and  reassuring  fact  that  no  one,  Cock  of  the  morn- 
ills  d'reamsT^  "'ghtmgale,  has  quite  the  song  of 

.  A  wonderful  message,  for  there  must  always  be 
in  the  soul  a  fa.tbso  faithful  that  it  comes  back 

stand  that  it  .s  rather  the  consciousness  that  though 
we  cannot  wake  the  dawn,  we  must  prepare  the 
people  to  greet  the  rising  sun. 


I' 


BRIEUX 


'If 


DAMAGED  GOODS 

IN  the  preface  to  the  English  edition  of 
"  Damaged  Goods,"  George  Bernard  Shaw 
relates  a  story  concerning  Lord  Melbourne, 
in  the  early  days  of  Queen  Victoria.  When 
the  cabinet  meeting  threatened  to  break  up  in  con- 
fusion. Lord  Melbourne  put  his  back  to  the  door 
and  said :  "  Gentlemen,  we  can  tell  the  house  the 
truth  or  we  can  tell  it  a  lie.  I  don't  give  a  damn 
which  it  is.  Al'  ^  •  -^  on  is  that  we  shaii  all  tell 
the  same  lie,  and  /ou  shall  not  leave  the  room  until 
you  have  settled  what  it  is  to  be." 

This  seems  to  characterize  the  position  of  our 
middle-class  moralitj  to-day.  Whether  a  thing 
be  right  or  wrong,  we  are  all  to  express  the  same 
opinion  on  the  subject.  All  must  agree  on  the 
same  lie,  and  the  lie  upon  which  all  agree,  more 
than  on  any  other,  is  the  lie  of  purity,  which  must 
be  kept  up  at  all  costs. 

How  slow  our  moralists  move  is  best  proved  by 
the  fact  that  although  the  great  scientist  Neisser 
had  discovered,  as  far  back  as  1879,  that  sup- 
posedly  insignificant  venereal  afflictions  are  due  to 

H7 


't 


['*.  ., 


mv 


•I 


148 


Brieux 


1  i 


a  malignant  micro-organisin  often  disastrous  not 
only  to  the  immediate  victim,  but  also  to  those  who 
come  m  touch  with  him,  the  subject  is  still  largely 
tabooed  and  must  not  be  discussed. 

To  be  8-. re,  there  is  a  small  contingent  of  men 
and  women  who  realize  the  necessity  of  a  frank 
discussion  of  the  very  important  matter  of  ven- 
creal  disease.     But  unfortunately  they  are  attempt- 
ing  to  drive  out  the  devil  with  fire.     They  are  en- 
lightening  the  public  as  to  the  gravity  of  gonorrhea 
and  syphilis  but  are  implanting  an  evil  by  no  means 
less  harmful,  namely,  the  element  of  fear.    The 
result  often  is  that  the  victims  who  contract  an  in- 
fection  are  as  little  capable  of  taking  care  of  them- 
selv..  now  as  in  the  pa-  when  they  knew  little 
about  the  subject. 

Brieux  is  among  the  "o  iv  who  treats  the  question 
m  a  frank  manner,  showing  that  the  most  danger- 
ous phase  of  venereal  disease  is  ignorance  and  fear, 
and  that  if  treated  openly  and  intelligently,  it  is 
perfectly  curable.  Brieux  also  emphasizes  the  im- 
p(  rtance  of  kmdness  and  consideration  for  those 
who  contract  the  affliction,  since  it  has  nothing  to 
do  with  what  is  commonly  called  evil,  immorality, 
or  impurity. 

Therein  lies  the  superiority  of  "Damaged 
Ooods  to  most  scientific  treatises.  Without 
lacking  logic  and  clarity,  it  has  greater  humanity 
and  warmth. 


Damaged  Goods  149 

But  "  Damaged  Goods  "  contains  more  than  an 
expose  of  venereal  disease.  It  touches  upon  the 
whole  of  our  social  life.  It  points  out  the  cold- 
blooded  indifference  of  the  rich  toward  those  who 
do  not  belong  to  their  class,  to  the  poor,  the 
workers,  the  disinherited  whom  they  sacrifice  with- 
out the  slightest  compunction  on  the  altar  of  their 
own  comforts.  Moreover,  the  play  also  treats  of 
the  contemptible  attitude  towards  love  not  backed 
by  property  or  legal  sanction.  In  short,  it  un- 
covers  and  exposes  not  only  sexual  disease  but  that 
which  is  even  more  terrible  —  our  social  disease, 
our  social  syphilis. 

George  Dupont,  the  son  of  wealthy  people,  is 
informed  by  a  specialist  that  he  has  contracted  a 
venereal  disease  of  a  most  serious  nature;  but  that 
with  patience  and  time  he  will  be  cured.  Dupont 
is  crushed  by  the  news,  and  decides  to  blow  out 
his  brains.  His  only  regret  is  that  he  cannot  in 
the  least  account  for  his  trouble. 

George.  I'm  not  a  rake,  Doctor.  My  life  might  be 
held  up  as  an  example  to  all  young  men.  I  assure  you, 
no  one  could  possibly  be  more  prudent,  no  one.  Sec 
here;  supposing  I  told  you  that  in  all  my  life  I  have  only 
had  two  mistresses,  what  would  you  say  to  that? 

Doctor.  That  would  have  been  enough  to  bring  you 
here. 

George.     No,   Doctor.     Not  one  of  those  two.     No 


m 


111 


i!i 


't 


145=1 


i: 

II 1 


150 


Bri 


rteux 


iii  ^ 


1" 


i 


i«. 


one  in  the  world  has  dreaded  this  so  much  as  I  have;  no 
one  has  tiken  such  infinite  precauti(^ns  to  avoid  it.     My 
first  m.-stress  uas  the  wife  of  my  best  friend.     I   chose 
ler  or  account  of  him;  and  him,  not  because  f  cared  most 
*"    '  i^      at  because  I  knew  he  was  a  man  of  the  most 
•norals,  who  watched  his  wife  jealously  and  didn't 
iv     ^^       ^0  about   forming  imprudent   connections.    As 
'         .,1  kept  her  in  absolute  terror  of  this  disease.     I 
toJd  lier  that  almost  all  men  were  taken  with  it.  so  that 
»he  mightn't  dream  of  being  false  to  me.     My   friend 
died  m  my  arms.     That  was  the  only  thing  that  could 
have  separated  me  from  her.     Then  I  took  up  with  a 

young  seamstress Well,  this  was  a  decent  girl  with 

a  family  in  needy  circumstances  to  support.     Her  grand- 
mother was  an  invalid,  and  there  was  an  ailing  father  and 
three  little  brothers.     It  was  by  my  means  that  they  all 
lived.  ...  I  told  her  and  I  let  the  others  know  that  if 
she  played  me  false  I  should  leave  her  at  once.     So  then 
they  all  watched  her  for  me.     It  became  a  regular  thing 
that  I  should  spend  Sunday  with  them,  and  in  that  sort 
of  way  I  was  able  to  give  her  a  lift  up.     Church-going 
was  a  respectable  kind  of  outing  for  her.     I   rented  a 
pew  for  them  and  her  mother  used  to  go  with  her  to 
church;  they  liked   seeing  their  name  engraved  on  the 
card.     She  never  left  the   house  alone.     Three  months 
ago,  when  the  question  of  my  marriage  came  up,  I  had 
to  leave  her. 

Doctor.     You  were  very  happy,  why  did  you  xvant  to 
change  ? 

George.     I  wanted  to  settle  down.     My  father  was  a 
notary,  and  before  his  death  he  expressed  a  wish  that  I 


i'    '-' 


Wfci^ 


Damaged  Goods 


IS' 


W 


should  marry  my  cousin.  It  was  a  good  match;  her 
dowry  will  help  to  get  me  a  practice.  Besides,  I  simply 
adore  her.  She's  fond  of  me,  too.  I  had  evrrything  one 
could  want  to  make  my  life  happy.  And  then  a  lot  of 
idiots  must  give  me  a  farewell  dinner  and  make  me  gad 
about  with  them.  See  what  has  come  of  it!  I  haven't 
any  luck,  I've  never  had  any  luck!  I  know  fellows  who 
lead  the  most  racketty  life:  nothing  happens  to  them, 
the  beasts!  But  I  —  for  a  wretched  lark  — what  is 
there  left  for  a  leper  like  me?  My  future  is  ruined,  my 
whole  life  poisoned.  Well  then,  isn't  it  better  for  me 
to  clear  out  of  it?  Anyway,  I  shan't  suflfer  any  more. 
You  see  now,  no  one  could  be  more  wretched  than  I  am. 

The  doctor  explains  to  him  that  there  is  no  need 
for  despair,  but  that  he  must  postpone  his  mar- 
riage  if  he  does  not  wish  to  ruin  his  wife  and  pos- 
sibly make  her  sterile  for  life.  It  is  imperative 
especially  because  of  the  offspring,  which  is  certain 
to  be  syphilitic. 

Doctor.  Twenty  cases  identical  with  yours  have  been 
carefully  observed  —  from  the  beginning  to  the  end. 
Nineteen  times  —  you  hear,  nineteen  times  in  twenty  — 
the  woman  was  contaminated  by  her  husband.  You 
think  that  the  danger  is  negligible:  you  think  you  have 
the  right  to  let  your  wife  take  her  chance,  as  you  said, 
of  being  one  of  the  exceptions  for  which  we  can  do 
nothing!  Very  well  then;  then  you  shall  know  what 
you  are  doing.  You  shall  know  what  sort  of  a  disease 
it  is  that  your  wife  will  have  five  chances  per  cent,  of 
contracting  without  so  much  as  having  her  leave  asked. 


♦ft  1  ri 


!*■ 


^ 


■I 


'52 


Brieux 


...  But  there  is  not  only  your  wife,- there  are  her 

•Idren.  your  children,  whom  you  „,ay  contaminate,  to^' 

It  IS  .n  the  name  of  those  innocent  h'ttle  ones  that  I 

ZLl7°"'' ' '  ^'^ '""^^  °^  ^'^  ^-^  ^^- ^ - 

But  George  Dupont  will  not  postpone  the  mar- 
nage  for  several  years.     He  would  have  to  give 
an  explanation,  break  his  word,  and  lose  his  in- 
hentance- things  infinitely  more  important  than 
any  consideration  for  the  girl  he  "  adores  "  or  for 
Aeir  children,  should  they  have  any.     I„  short, 
he  IS  actuated  by  the  morality  of  the  bourgeoisie 
the  silly  conception  of  honor,  the  dread  of  public 
opinion  and,  above  all,  the  greed  for  property. 

The  second  act  is  laid  at  the  home  of  George 
Dupont.  George  and  his  wife  Henriette  are  child- 
hly  happy,  except  for  the  regret  that  their  mar- 
nage  could  not  have  taken  place  six  months  earlier 
because  poor  George  had  been  declared  consump- 
tive      How    stupid    of   doctors    to    suspect   the 

Butth'e ''""L'''''^^  """^^^^  ^^  consumption! 
But,  then,  all  doctors  are  stupid."  But  now  that 
they  are  together,  nothing  shall  part  them  in  their 
great  happiness,  and  especially  in  their  great  love 
for  their  baby.  True,  a  little  cloud  obscures  their 
sunny  horizon.  The  baby  is  not  very  strong  b" 
wi  h  the  care  and  devotion  of  the  grandmother  out 
m  the  country  air,  it  is  sure  to  recover. 


Damaged  Goods 


I  S3 

The  grandmother  unexpectedly  arrives  an- 
nouncng  that  she  has  brought  the  baby  bick  to 
town :  ,t  is  very  ill  and  she  haf  consulted  a'specialist 

Tflu  ^"^"'^^y  *«  dottor  "rives.  He  insists 
h  t  the  wet  nurse  be  dismissed  immediately,  s  he 
chdd  would  mfect  her  and  she  in  return  would  in! 
ect  her  own  husband  and  baby.  Madame  Dupo", 
IS  scandalized.  What  l^av,.  h^^  ^  •  "^""/ 
chlMf  R  k  u-  ".' ^^^^^  "^'^  precious  grand- 
child I     Rob  him  of  the  milk  he  needs  I 

Mme   Dupont.     If  there  is  one  way  to  save  its  life. 

i  ZT  u  ,T  ""'^  "'^''  y°"  ^"^'^"^  condemn  even  for 
healthy  chddren.  Vou  think  I  will  let  her  die  like  that 
Oh.  I  shall  take  good  care  she  does  not!  NedL  the 
one  single  thing  that  can  save  her!  It  wo„  / K 
.nal'  As  for  the  nurse,  we  wiU  'indLn^he;  "we" 
Dt:r^^'  '"  °"\^T"'  everythinglt  tha."^^ 
self  I  th-  '^  "°'  '^'  ^'^^  ^'"^  I  have  found  my- 

self  in  this  situanon.  and  I  must  begin  by  telling.  Z. 
that  parents  who  have  refused  to  be  gu'ided  V^y  fdv^c^ 
have  .nvanably  repented  of  it  most  bitterly.  You 

propose  to  profit  by  her  ignorance  and  her  pLWy*    Z 
^des.  she  could  obtain  the  assistance  of  the  cour"' 
Vou  can  convince  yourself.     In  one  or  two  ca^s'th^ 

toTgLtVotUd  rr ''  '"^"^^  ^^-""^ '--  ^^- 


fit 


II 


•I 


m 


I   ,'i 


154 


Brieux 


\  w 


i  I 


heaven  we  are  rich  enough.  No  doubt  he  would  make 
it  appear  doubtful  whether  the  child  hadn't  caught  this  dis- 
ease  from  the  nurse,  rather  than  the  nurse  from  the  child. 

Indeed,  what  matters  a  peasant  woman !  They 
are  so  numerous.  In  vain  the  doctor  tries  to  con- 
vince Mme.  Dupont  that  it  is  not  a  question  of 
money.  It  is  a  question  of  humanity,  of  decency; 
he  would  not  and  could  not  be  a  party  to  such  a 
crime. 

After  the  doctor  leaves  to  examine  the  child, 
Mme.  Dupont  and  her  worthy  son  clinch  the  bar- 
gam  with  the  unsuspecting  and  ignorant  servant. 
They  tell  her  that  the  baby  has  a  cold  which  it 
might  communicate  to  her.  The  poor  peasant  girl 
had  lived  in  the  cold  all  her  life,  and  as  she  justly 
says:  "  We  of  the  country  are  not  as  delicate  as 
the  Parisian  ladies."  She  realizes  that  a  thou- 
sand francs  would  mean  a  great  fortune  to  her,  and 
that  it  would  help  her  people  to  pay  the  mortgage 
and  become  independent.  She  consents  to  stay 
and  signs  away  her  health. 

The  doctor  returns  with  the  dreaded  news  that 
the  child  has  congenital  syphilis.  He  informs 
them  that  with  care  and  patience  t'.o  child  might 
be  cured,  but  that  it  will  have  to  be  put  on  bottle 
milk,  because  otherwise  it  would  be  disastrous  to 
the  nurse.  When  he  is  told  that  the  nurse  has 
consented  to  remain,  he  grows  indignant,  declar- 
mg: 


Damaged  Goods 


155 


"  You  must  not  ask  me  to  sacrifice  the  health  of  a  young 
and  strong  woman  to  that  of  a  sickly  infant.  I  will  be 
no  party  to  giving  this  woman  a  disease  that  would  em- 
bitter the  lives  of  her  whole  family,  and  almost  certainly 
render  her  sterile.  Besides.  I  cannot  even  do  it  from  a 
legal  standpoint.  .  .  .  //  you  do  not  consent  to  have  the 
child  fed  by  hand,  I  shall  either  speak  to  the  nurse  or 
give  up  the  case." 

But  there  Is  no  need  for  the  doctor  to  interfere. 
Fortunately  for  the  servant,  she  discovers  the 
miserable  transaction.  She  learns  from  the  but- 
ler the  real  condition  of  the  child,  and  announces 
to  the  Duponts  that  she  must  refuse  to  stay.  "  I 
know  your  brat  isn't  going  to  live.  I  know  it's 
rotten  through  and  through  because  its  father's 
got  a  beastly  disease  that  he  caught  from  some 
woman  of  the  streets." 

At  this  terrible  moment  the  unsuspecting,  light- 
headed and  light-hearted  mother,  Henriette,  ar- 
rives. She  overhears  the  horrible  news  and  falls 
screaming  to  the  floor. 

The  last  act  takes  place  in  the  hospital  — the 
refuge  of  the  unfortunate  victims  of  poverty,  ig- 
norance and  false  morality.  M.  Loche,  the 
Deputy,  is  announced.  The  doctor  is  overjoyed 
because  he  believes  that  the  representative  of  the 
people  comes  to  inform  himself  of  the  causes  of 
the  widespread  misery.  But  he  is  mistaken. 
M.  Loche  is  the  father-in-law  of  George  DuponL 


■IS- 


t  .        I  ■  vl    . 


i 


i: 


i 


iS6 


Brieux 


He  wants  to  secure  the  signature  of  the  doctor  as 
evidence  in  the  divorce  sought  by  his  daughter. 

-Dor/or     I  regret  that  I  am  unable  to  furnish  you 
w.th   such   a  certificate.  ...  The   rule  of  professional 
secrecy  ,s  absolute.    And  I  may  add  that  even  were  I 
tree  1  should  refuse  your  request.     I  should  regret  hav- 
ing  helped  you  to  obtain  a  divorce.     It  would  be  in  your 
daughters  own  interest  that  I  should  refuse.    You  ask 
me  for  a  certificate  in  order  to  prove  to  the  court  that 
your  son-m-law  has  contracted  syphilis?    You  do   not 
consider  that  in  doing  so  you  will  publicly  acknowledge 
diat  your  daughter  has  been  exposed  to  the  infection. 
Do  you  suppose  that  after  that  your  daughter  is  likely  to 
find  a  second  husband?  ...  Do  you  think  that  this  poor 
.tie  thmg  has  not  been  unlucky  enough  in  her  start  in 

A  .  .  vu^""  ''''"  ^^'^^''^  physically.  You  wish  be- 
s.de3  ,nd  Jibb^  to  stamp  her  with  the  legal  proof  of  con- 
genital  syphilis. 

Loche.    Then  what  am  I  to  do? 

Doctor.  Forgive When  the  marriage  was  pro- 
posed you  doubtless  made  inquiries  concerning  your 
future  son-in-law's  income;  you  investigated  his  securi- 
ties; you  satisfied  yourself  as  to  his  character.  You  only 
omitted  one  point,  but  it  was  the  most  important  of  all- 
you  made  no  inquiries  concerning  his  health. 

Loche.  No  I  did  not  do  that.  It  is  not  the  cus- 
tom. ...  I  think  a  law  should  be  passed. 

Doctor.  No,  no!  We  want  no  new  laws.  There 
are  too  many  already.  All  that  is  needed  is  for  people 
to  understand  the  nature  of  this  disease  rather  better. 
It  would  soon  become  the  custom  for  a  man  who  pro- 


Damaged  Goods 


posed  for  a  girl's  hand  to  add  to  the  other  things  for 
which  he  IS  asked  a  medical  statement  of  bodily  fitness, 
which  would  make  it  certain  that  he  did  not  bring  this 

plague  mto  the  family  with  him Well,  there  is 

one  last  argument  which,  since  I  must,  I  will  put  to  you 
Are  you  yourself  without  sin,  that  you  are  so  relentles^ 
to  others? 

Loche.    I  have  never  had  any  shameful  disease,  sir. 
Doctor.     I  was  not  asking  you  that.     I  was  asking 
you  ,f  you  had  never  exposed  yourself  to  catching  one. 
Ah,  you  see!    Then  it  is  not  virtue  that  has  saved  you; 
It  IS  luck.     Few  things  exasperate  me  more  than  that 
^m,      shameful    disease,"   which   you    used   just   now. 
This  disease  ,s  like  all  other  diseases:  it  is  one  of  our 
afflictions.    There  is  no  shame  in  being  wretched  -  even 
If  one  deserves  to  be  so.    Come,  come,  let  us  have  a  little 
plain  speakmg!    I  should  like  to  know  how  many  of 
these  rigid  moralists,  who  are  so  shocked  with  their  mid- 
dle-c lass  prudery,  that  they  dare  not  mention  the  name 
syphilis,  or  when  they  bring  themselves  to  sj    ik  of  it  do 
so  with  expressions  of  every  sort  of  disgust,  and  treat  its 
victims  as  criminals,  have  never  run  the  risk  of  contract- 
ing It  themselves?    It  is  those  alone  who  have  the  right 
to  talk.     How  many  do  you  think  there  are?    Four  out 
of  a  thousand?    Well,  leave  those  four  aside:  between 
allthe  rest  and  those  who  catch  the  disease  there  is  no 
difference  but  chance,  and  by  heavens,  those  who  escape 
wont  get  much  sympathy  from  me:  the  others  at  least 
have  paid  their  fine  of  suffering  and  remorse,  while  thev 
have  gone  scot  free!    Let's  have  done,  if  you  plea^ 
once  for  all  with  this  sort  of  hypocrisy. 


•4i 


■:?; 


m 

11  ■ 


1 


i<[8 


Brieux 


The  doctor,  who  Is  not  only  a  sincere  scientist 
but  also  a  humanitarian,  realizes  that  as  things 
are  to-day  no  one  Is  exempt  from  the  possibility 
of  contracting  an  infection;  that  those  who  are 
responsible  for  the  spread  of  the  disease  are  they 
who  constantly  excuse  themselves  with  the  inane 
"  I  did  not  know,"  as  If  Ignorance  were  not  the 
crime  of  all  crimqs.  The  doctor  demonstrates  to 
M.  Loche  a  number  of  cases  under  his  observation, 
all  of  them  the  result  of  ignorance  and  of  poverty. 

There  is,  for  instance,  the  woman  whose  hus- 
band died  of  the  disease.  He  "  didn't  know  "  ; 
so  he  infected  her.  She,  on  the  other  hand,  Is 
poor  and  cannot  afford  the  treatment  she  needs. 
A  private  physician  Is  beyond  her  means,  and  she 
has  too  much  pride  to  stand  the  Indignities  heaped 
upon  the  poor  who  are  at  the  mercy  of  dispensaries 
and  charity.  Therefore  she  neglects  her  disease 
and  perhaps  is  unconsciously  Instrumental  in  In- 
fecting others. 

Then  there  is  the  man  whose  young  son  has  con- 
tracted the  disease.  His  father  "  didn't  know," 
and  therefore  he  did  not  Inform  his  son,  as  a  re- 
sult of  which  the  boy  became  half  paralyzed. 

Man.  We  are  small  trades-people;  we  have  regularly 
bled  ourselves  in  order  to  send  him  to  college,  and 
now—  I  only  wish  the  same  thing  mayn't  happen  to 
others.  It  was  at  the  very  college  gates  that  my  poor 
boy  was  got  hold  of  by  one  of  these  women.    Is  it  right, 


ii 


■V' 


Damaged  Goods 


159 

sir,  that  that  should  be  allowed?  Aren't  there  enough 
police  to  prevent  children  of  fifteen  from  being  seduced 
like  that?    I  ask,  is  it  right? 


Th 


le  poor  mi 


did 


m  his  Ignorance, 
tnat  "  these  women  "  are  the  most  victimized,  as 
demonstrated  by  the  doctor  himself  in  the  case  of 
the  poor  girl  of  the  street.     She  was  both  ig- 
norant  and  innocent  when  she  found  a  place  as 
domestic  servant  and  was  seduced  by  her  master. 
Then  she  was  kicked  out  into  the  street,  and  in 
her  endless  search   for  work  found  every  door 
closed  in  her  face.     She  was  compelled  to  stifle 
her  feeling  of  motherhood,  to  send  her  baby  to  a 
foundling  asylum,  and  finally,  in  order  to  exist,  be- 
come a  street-walker.     If  in  return  she  infected 
the  men  who  came  to  her,  including  her  erstwhile 
seducer,  she  was  only  paying  back  in  a  small 
measure  what  society  had  done  to  her,—  the  in- 
jury,  the  bitterness,  the  misery  and  tears  heaped 
upon  her  by  a  cruel  and  self-satisfied  world. 

It  is  to  be  expected  that  a  political  representa- 
tive  of  the  people  like  Loche  should  suggest  the 
same  stereotyped  measures  as  his  predecessors: 
legal  enactments,  prosecution,  imprisonment.  But 
the  doctor,  a  real  social  student,  knows  that  "  the 
true  remedy  lies  in  a  change  of  our  ways." 

Doctor.     Syphilis  must  cease  to  be  treated  like  a  mv-s- 
terious  evil,   the  very  name  of  which  cannot  be  pro- 


1:1 


I 


(1 


«41 


Hi 


'i6o 


Brieux 


N>! 


nounced People  ought  to  be  taught  that  there  is 

nothing  immoral  in  the  act  that  reproduces  life  by  means 
of  love.  But  for  the  benefit  of  our  children  we  organize 
round  about  it  a  gigantic  conspiracy  of  silence.  A  re- 
spectable man  will  take  his  son  and  daughter  to  one  of 
these  grand  music  halls,  where  they  will  hear  things  of 
the  most  loathsome  description;  but  he  won't  let  them 
hear  a  word  spoken  seriously  on  the  subject  of  the  great 
act  of  love.  The  mystery  and  humbug  in  which  phy- 
sical  facts  are  enveloped  ought  to  be  swept  away  and 
young  men  be  given  some  pride  in  the  creative  power 
with  which  each  one  of  us  is  endowed. 

In  other  words,  what  we  need  is  more  general 
enlightenment,  greater  frankness  and,  above  all, 
different  social  and  economic  conditions.  The 
revolutionary  significance  of  "  Damaged  Goods  " 
consists  in  the  lesson  that  not  syphilis  but  the  causes 
«iat  lead  to  it  are  the  terrible  curse  of  society. 
Those  who  rant  against  syphilis  and  clamor  for 
more  laws,  for  marriage  certificates,  for  registra- 
tion and  segregation,  do  not  touch  even  the  sur- 
face of  the  evil.  Brieux  is  among  the  very  few 
modern  dramatists  who  go  to  the  bottom  of  this 
question  by  insisting  or  ^  complete  social  and 
economic  change,  which  jne  can  free  us  from 
the  scourge  of  syphilis  ana  other  social  plagues. 


Maternity 


l6l 


MATERNITY 

Motherhood  to-day  is  on  the  lips  of  every 
penny-a-liner,  every  social  patch-worker  and  polit- 
ical  climber.     It  is  so  much  prated  about  that  one 
IS  led  to  believe  that  motherhood,  in  its  present  con- 
dition,    is   a    force   for   good.     It   therefore   re- 
quired  a  free  spirit  combined  with  great  dramatic 
power  to  tear  the  mask  off  the  lying  face  of 
motherhood,  that  we  may  see  that,  whatever  its 
possibilities  in  a  free  future,  motherhood  is  to-day 
a  sickly  tree  setting  forth  diseased  branches.     For 
Its  sake  thousands  of  women  are  being  sacrificed 
and  children  sent  into  a  cold  and  barren  world 
without  the  slightest  provision  for  their  physical 
and  mental  needs.     It  was  left  to  Brieux  to  in- 
scribe with  letters  of  fire  the  crying  shame  of  the 
motherhood  of  to-day. 

Brignac,  a  provincial  lawyer  and  an  unscrupu- 
lous  climber  for  political  success,  represents  the 
typical  pillar  of  society.  He  believes  implicitly 
m  the  supremacy  of  God  over  the  destiny  of  man. 
He  swears  by  the  State  and  the  army,  and  cringes 
before  the  power  of  money.  Naturally  he  is  the 
champion  of  large  families  as  essential  to  the  wel- 
fare of  society,  and  of  motherhood,  as  the  most 
sacred  and  sole  function  of  woman. 

He  is  the  father  of  three  children,  all  of  whom 
are  m  a  precarious  condition.     He  resents  the  idea 


I'l^: 


i 


p' 


162 


Brieux 


I 


If  ^i 


1  i- 


that  society  ought  to  take  care  of  the  children 
already  in  existence,  rather  than  continue  indis« 
criminately  breeding  more.  Brignac  himself 
wants  more  children.  In  vain  his  wife  Lucie, 
weakened  by  repeated  pregnancies,  pleads  with 
him  for  a  respite. 

Lucie.  Listen,  Julien,  since  we  are  talking  about  this. 
I  wanted  to  tell  you  —  I  haven't  had  much  leisure  since 
our  marriage.  We  have  not  been  able  to  take  advantage 
of  a  single  one  of  your  holidays.  I  really  have  a  right 
to  a  little  rest.  .  .  .  Consider,  we  have  not  had  any  time 
to  know  one  another,  or  to  love  one  another.  Besides, 
remember  that  we  already  have  to  find  dowries  for  three 
girls. 

Brignac.     I  tell  you  this  is  going  to  be  a  boy. 

Lucie.    A  boy  is  expensive. 

Brignac.    We  are  going  to  be  rich'.* 

Lucie.     How  ? 

Brignac.  Luck  may  come  in  several  ways.  I  may  stay 
in  the  civil  service  and  get  promoted  quickly.  I  may  go 
back  to  the  bar.  ...  I  am  certain  we  shall  be  r'ch. 
After  all,  it's  not  much  good  your  saying  so,  if  I  say  yes. 

Lucie.  Evidently.  My  consent  was  asked  for  before 
I  was  given  a  husband,  but  my  consent  is  not  asked  for 
before  I  am  given  a  child.  .  .  .  This  is  slavery  —  yes, 
slavery.  After  all  you  are  disposing  of  my  health,  my 
sufferings,  my  life  —  of  a  year  of  my  existence,  calmly, 
without  consulting  me. 

Brignac.  Do  I  do  it  out  of  selfishness?  Do  you  sup- 
pose I  am  not  a  most  unhappy  husband  all  the  time  I 


JJU^     ' 


Maternity 


163 


have  a  future  mother  at  my  side  instead  of  a  loving 
wife?  ...  A  father  is  a  man  all  the  same. 

Lucie.  Rubbish!  You  evMcntly  take  me  for  a  fool. 
1  know  what  you  do  at  those  times.  .  .  .  Don't  deny  it. 
You  must  see  that  I  know  all  about  it.  .  .  .  Do  you  want 
me  to  tell  you  the  name  of  the  person  you  go  to  see  over 
at  Villeneuve,  while  I  am  nursing  or  "  a  future  mother," 
as  you  call  it?    We  had  better  say  no  more  about  it. 

Brignac  goes  off  to  his  political  meeting  to  pro- 
claim to  his  constituency  the  sacredness  of  mother- 
hood,—  the  deepest  and  highest  function  of 
woman. 

Lucie  has  a  younger  sister,  Annette,  a  girl  of 
eighteen.  1  heir  parents  being  dead,  Lucie  takes 
the  place  of  the  mother.  She  is  passionately  fond 
of  her  little  sister  and  makes  it  her  purpose  to 
keep  the  girl  sheltered  and  protected  from  the 
outside  world.  Annette  arrives  and  announces 
with  great  enthusiasm  that  the  son  of  the  wealthy 
Bernins  has  declared  his  love  and  asked  her  to 
marry  him,  and  that  his  mother,  Mme.  Bernin, 
is  coming  to  talk  the  matter  over  with  Lucie. 

Mme.  Bernin  does  arrive,  but  not  fc  the  pur- 
pose poor  Annette  had  hop  1.  Rather  is  it  to 
tell  Lucie  that  her  son  cannot  marry  the  girl. 
Oh,  not  because  she  isn't  beautiful,  pure  or  at- 
tractive. Indeed  not!  Mme.  Bernin  herself 
says  that  her  son  could  not  wish  for  a  more  suit- 
able match.     But,  then,  she  has  no  money,  and 


III 


ril 


rrrss- 


164 


Brieux 


ii  II 


J 


her  son  must  succeed  in  the  world.  He  must  ac- 
quire social  standing  and  position;  that  cannot  be 
had  without  money.  When  Lucie  pleads  with  her 
that  after  all  the  Bernins  themselves  had  begun  at' 
the  bottom,  and  that  it  did  not  prevent  their  being 
happy,  Mme.  Bernin  replies: 

No,  no;  wc  are  not  happy,  because  we  have  worn  our- 
selves out  hunting  after  happiness.     We  wanted  to  '*  get 
on,"  and  we  got  on.   jBut  what  a  price  we  paid  for  it! 
First,  when  we  were  both  earning  wages,  our  life  was 
one   long   drud>;ery   of   petty   economy    and    meanness. 
When  we  set  up  on  our  own  account,  we  lived  in  an 
atmosphere  of  trickery,  of  enmity,  of  lying;  flattering  the 
customers,  and  always  in  terror  of  bankruptcy.     Oh,  I 
know  the  road  to  fortune!     It  means  tears,  lies,  envy, 
hate;  one  suffers  —  and  one  makes  other  people  suffer. 
I  have  had  to  go  through  it:  my  children  shan't.     We've 
only  had   two  children:  we  meant  only  to  have  one. 
Having  two  wc  had  to  be  doubly  hard  upon  ourselves. 
Instead  of  a  husband  and  wife  helping  one  another,  we 
have  been  partners  spying  upon  one  another;  calling  one 
another    to    account    for    every    little    expenditure    or 
stupidity;  and  on  our  very  pillows  disputing  about  our 
business.     That's  how  we  got  rich;  and  now  we  can't 
enjoy  our  money  because  we  don't  know  how  to  use  it; 
and  we  aren't  happy  because  our  old  age  is  made  bitter 
by  the  memories  and  the  rancor  left  by  the  old  bad  days ; 
because  we  have  suffered  too  much  and  hated  too  much. 
My  children  shall  not  go  through  this.     I  endured  it  that 
they  might  be  spared. 


Maternity 


i6s 


Learning  the  price  Mme.  Bernin  has  paid  for 
her  wealth,  we  need  not  blame  her  for  turning;  a 
deaf  ear  lo  the  entreaties  of  /,//</<•  in  behalf  of 
her  sistt-r.  Neither  can  Lucie  be  held  responsible 
for  her  stupidity  in  keeping  her  sister  in  ij.rnorance 
until  she  was  incapable  of  protecting  herself  when 
the  occasion  demanded.  Poor  .InnctW,  one  of 
the  many  oIKtco  up  to  the  insatiable  monster  of 
ignorance  and  social  con\ention! 

When  Jnucur  's  informed  of  the  result  of 
Mme.  Brruiu's  visit,  the  girl  grows  hysterical, 
and  Lucie  learns  that  her  little  sister  is  ?hout  to 
become  a  mother.  Under  the  pretext  oi  '•  ve  and 
marriage  young,  pampered  /a///i,  P.- 
taken  advantage  of  the  girl's  inexr  -'fu  j 
nocence.  In  her  despair  Amieh:  ^^c 
search  of  her  lover,  only  to  be  i:;  'I;.. 
in  a  vulgar  and  cruel  manner.  She  ihn.  .;!;  ,ii  '.rj 
suicide  by  trying  to  throw  herself  under  h.  viaUi 
which  is  to  carry  off  her  worthless  seducer.  She 
is  rescued  by  the  faithful  nurse  Catherine,  and 
brought  back  to  her  anxious  sister  Lucie.  Ann- 
ette, in  great  excitement,  relates: 

Annette.  You'll  never  guess  what  he  said.  He  got 
angry,  and  he  began  to  abuse  me.  He  said  he  guessed 
what  I  was  up  to;  that  I  wanted  to  make  a  scandal  to 
force  him  to  marry  me  —  oh,  he  spared  me  nothing  —  to 
force  him  to  marry  me  because  he  was  rich.  And  when 
that  made  me  furious,  he  threatened  to  call  the  police! 


a  as 
T  >  'n- 

.)!(!;    ;n 

'A-    lii'U 


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I' 


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1 66 


Brieux 


I  ought  to  have  left  him,  run  away,  come  home,  oughtn't 
I ?  But  I  couldn't  believe  it  of  him  all  at  once,  like  that! 
And  I  couldn't  go  away  while  I  had  any  hope.  .  .  .  As 
long  as  I  was  holding  to  his  arm  it  was  as  if  I  was  en- 
gaged. When  he  was  gone  I  should  only  be  a  miserable 
ruined  girl,  like  dozens  of  others.  ...  My  life  was  at 
stake:  and  to  save  myself  I  went  down  into  the  very  low- 
est depths  of  vileness  and  cowardice.  I  cried,  I  im- 
plored.    I  lost  all  shanje What  he  said  then  I  can- 

not  tell  you  — not  even  you  — it  was  too  much  — too 
much  —  I  did  not  understand  at  first.  It  was  only  after- 
wards, coming  back,  going  over  all  his  words,  that  I  made 

out  what  he  meant Then  he  rushed  to  the  train, 

and  jumped  into  a  carriage,  and  almost  crushed  my  fin- 
gers in  the  door;  and  he  went  and  hid  behind  his  mother, 
and  she  threatened,  too,  to  have  me  arrested.  ...  I  wish 
I  was  dead !  Lucie,  dear,  I  don't  want  to  go  through  all 
thats  commg  — I  am  too  little  — I  am  too  weak,  I'm 
too  young  to  bear  it.     Really,  I  haven't  the  strength. 

But  Lucie  has  faith  In  her  husband.  In  all  the 
years  of  their  married  life  she  has  heard  him  pro- 
claim  from  the  very  housetops  that  motherhood  Is 
the  most  sacred  function  of  woman;  that  the  State 
needs  large  numbers;  that  commerce  and  the  army 
require  an  increase  of  the  population,  and  "  the 
government  commands  you  to  further  this  end  to 
the  best  of  your  ability,  each  one  of  you  In  his  own 
commune."  She  has  heard  her  husband  repeat, 
over  and  over  again,  that  the  woman  who  refuses 
to  abide  by  the  command  of  God  and  the  laws  to 


Matt 


rmty 


167 


become  a  mother  is  immoral,  is  criminal.     Surely 
he  would  understand  the  tragedy  of  Annette,  who 
had  been  placed  in  this  condition  not  through  her 
own  fault  but  because  she  had  been  confiding  and 
trustmg  m  the  promise  of  the  man.     Surely  Brig- 
nac  would  come  to  the  rescue  of  Annette;  would 
help  and  comfort  her  in  her  trying  and  difficult 
moment.     But  Lucie,  like  many  wives,  does  not 
know  her  husband;  she  does  not  know  that  a  man 
who  IS  so  hide-bound  by  statutes  and  codes  cannot 
have  human  compassion,  and  that  he  will  not  stand 
by  the  little  girl  who  has  committed  the  "  unpar- 
donable  sin."     Lucie  does  not  know,  but  she  is 
soon  to  learn  the  truth. 

Lucie.  I  tell  you  Annette  is  the  victim  of  this  wretch. 
If  you  are  going  to  do  nothing  but  insult  her,  we  had 
better  stop  discussing  the  matter. 

Brignac  I  am  in  a  nice  fix  now!  There  is  nothing 
eft  for  us  but  to  pack  our  trunks  and  be  off.  I  am  done 
for.  Rumed!  Smashed!  I  tell  you  if  she  was  caught 
red  handed  stealmg,  the  wreck  wouldn't  be  more  complete 
...  We  must  make  some  excuse.  We  will  invent  an 
aunt  or  cousm  who  has  invited  her  to  stay.  I  will  find  a 
c?ecent  house  for  her  in  Paris  to  go  to.  She'll  be  all  right 
there.  When  the  time  comes  she  can  put  the  child  out 
to  nurse  m  the  country,  and  come  back  to  us. 

Lucie.    You  seriously  propose  to  send  that  poor  child 
to  I'ans,  where  she  doesn't  know  a  soul? 

Brignac    y^hzt  do  you  mean  by  that?     I  will  go  to 
Paris  myself,  if  necessary.    There  arc  special  boarding 


yk 


■  m 


k0 
1.1 


111 


:«'  i 


Ml  y-\ 
Ml 


■^•1 


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Brieux 


M 


houses:  very  respectable  ones.  I'll  inquire:  of  course 
without  letting  out  that  it  is  fo/  anyone  I  know.  And 
I'll  pay  what  is  necessary.     What  more  can  you  want? 

Lucie.    Just  when  the  child  is  most  in  need  of  every  . 
care,  you  propose  to  send  her  of!  alone;  alone,  do  you  un- 
derstand, alone!    To  tear  her  away  from  here,  put  her 
into  a  train,  and  send  her  off  to  Paris,  like  a  sick  animal 
you  want  to  get  rid  of.     If  I  consented  to  that  I  should 
feel  that  I  was  as  bad  as  the  man  who  seduced  her.     Be 
honest,  Julien:  remember  it  is  in  our  interest  you  pro- 
pose to  sacrifice  her.     We  shall  gain  peace  and  quiet  at 
the  price  of  her  loneliness  and  despair.     To  save  our- 
selves—serious troubles,  I  admit —  we  are  to  abandon 
this  diild  to  strangers  .  .  .  away  from  all  love  pnd  care 
and  comfort,  without  a  friend  to  put  kind  arr  ^  around 
her  and   let   her  sob  her  grief  away.     I   implore  you, 
Julien,  I  entreat  you,  for  our  children's  sale,  don't  keep 
me  from  her,  don't  ask  me  to  do  this  shameful  thing. 

Brignac.  There  would  have  been  no  question  of  mis- 
ery if  she  had  behaved  herself. 

Lucie.  She  is  this  man's  victim!  But  she  won't  go. 
You'll  have  to  drive  her  out  as  you  drove  out  the  serv- 
ant. .  .  .  And  then  —  after  that  —  she  is  to  let  her  child 
go;  to  stifle  her  strongest  instinct;  to  silence  the  cry  of 
love  that  consoles  us  all  for  the  tortures  we  have  to  go 
through ;  to  turn  away  her  eyes  and  say,  "  Take  him  away, 
I  don't  want  him."  And  at  that  price  she  is  to  be 
forgiven  for  anoiher  person's  crime.  .  .  .  Then  that  is 
Society's  welcome  to  the  new  born  child  ? 

Brignac.  To  the  child  born  outside  of  marriage,  yes. 
If  it  wasn't  for  that,  there  would  soon  be  nothing  but 


Maternity 


169 


illegitimate   births.     It   is  to   preserve   the   family  that 
society  condemns  the  natural  child. 

Lucie.  You  say  you  want  a  larger  number  of  births, 
and  at  the  same  time  you  say  to  women :  "  No  mother- 
hood without  marriage,  and  no  marriage  without  money." 
As  long  as  you've  not  changed  that,  all  your  circulars  will 
be  met  with  shouts  of  derision  —  half  from  hate,  half 
from  pity.  ...  If  you  drive  Annette  out,  I  shall  go  with 
her. 

Lucie  and  Annette  go  out  into  the  world.  As 
middle-class  girls  they  have  been  taught  a  little 
oi  everything  and  not  much  of  anything.  They 
try  all  kinds  of  work  to  enable  them  to  make  a 
living,  but  though  they  toil  hard  and  long  hours, 
they  barely  earn  enough  for  a  meager  existence. 
As  long  as  Annette's  condition  is  not  noticeable, 
life  is  bearable;  but  soon  everybody  remarks  her 
state.  She  and  Lucie  are  driven  from  place  to 
place.  In  her  despair  Annette  does  what  many 
girls  in  her  position  have  done  before  her  and  will 
do  after  her  so  long  as  the  Brignacs  and  their 
morality  are  dominant.  She  visits  a  midwife,  and 
one  more  victim  Is  added  to  the  large  number 
slaughtered  upon  the  altar  of  morality. 

The  last  act  Is  in  the  court  room.  Mme. 
Thomas,  the  midwife,  Is  on  trial  for  criminal 
abortion.  With  her  are  a  number  of  women 
whose  names  have  been  found  on  her  register. 

Bit  by  bit  we  learn  the  whole  tragedy  of  each  of 


m 


IJO 


Brieux 


the  defendants;  we  see  all  the  sordidness  of  pov- 
erty, the  inability  to  procure  the  bari  necessities  of 
life,  and  the  dread  of  the  unwelcome  child. 

A  schoolmistress,  although  earning  a  few  hun- 
dred francs,  and  living  with  her  husband,  is  com- 
pelled to  have  an  abortion  performed  because  an- 
other child  would  mean  hunger  for  all  of  them. 

Schoolmistress.  We  just  managed  to  get  along  by 
being  most  careful;  and  several  times  we  cut  down  ex- 
penses it  did  not  seem  possible  to  cut  down.  A  third 
child  coming  upset  everything.  We  couldn't  have  lived. 
We  should  have  all  starved.  Besides,  the  inspectors  and 
directresses  don't  like  us  to  have  many  children,  espe- 
cially if  we  nurse  them  ourselves.  They  told  me  to  hide 
myself  when  I  was  suckling  the  last  one.  I  only  had  ten 
minutes  to  do  it  in,  at  the  recreation,  at  ten  o'clock  and 
at  two  o'clock;  and  when  my  mother  brought  baby  to  me 
I  had  to  shut  myself  up  with  him  in  a  dark  closet. 

The  couple  Tupin  stand  before  the  bar  to  de- 
fend themselves  against  the  charge  of  criminal 
abortion.  Tupin  has  been  out  of  work  for  a  long 
time  and  is  driven  by  misery  to  drink.  He  is 
known  to  the  police  as  a  disreputable  character. 
One  of  his  sons  is  serving  a  sentence  'or  theft, 
and  a  daughter  is  a  woman  of  the  streets.  But 
Tupin  is  a  thinking  man.  He  proves  that  his 
earnings  at  best  are  not  enough  to  supply  the 
needs  of  an  already  large  family.  The  daily 
nourishment  of  five  children  consists  of  a  four- 


Maternity 


171 


pound  loaf,  soup  of  vegetables  and  dripping,  and 
a  stew  which  costs  90  centimes.  Total,  3f.  75c. 
This  is  the  expenditr  c  of  the  father:  Return 
ticket  for  tram,  30c.  Tobacco,  15c.  Dinner, 
if.  25c.  The  rent,  3 oof.  Clothing  for  the  whole 
family,  and  boots:  16  pairs  of  boots  for  the  chil- 
dren at  4f.  50c.  each,  4  for  the  parents  at  8f., 
total  again  3oof.  Total  for  the  year,  2,6oof. 
Tiipin,  who  is  an  exceptional  workman,  earns  i6of. 
a  month,  that  is  to  say,  2,ioof.  a  year.  There  is 
therefore  an  annual  deficit  of  5oof.,  provided 
Tupin  keeps  at  work  all  the  time,  which  never 
happens  in  the  life  of  a  workingman.  Under  such 
circumstances  no  one  need  be  surprised  that  one  of 
his  children  is  imprisoned  for  theft,  and  the  other 
is  walking  the  streets,  while  Tupin  himself  is 
driven  to  drink. 

Tupin.  When  we  began  to  get  short  in  the  house,  my 
wife  and  I  started  to  quarrel.  Every  time  a  child  came 
we  were  mad  at  making  it  worse  for  the  others.  And 
so  ...  I  ended  up  in  the  saloon.  It's  warm  there,  and 
you  can't  hear  the  children  crying  nor  the  motfjer  con- 
plaining.  And  besides,  when  you  have  drink  in  you,  you 
forget.  .  .  .  And  that's  how  we  got  poorer  ami  poorer. 
My  fault,  if  you  like.  .  .  .  Our  last  child  was  a  cripple. 
He  was  born  in  starvation,  and  his  mother  was  worn  out. 
And  they  nursed  him,  and  they  nursed  him,  and  they 
nursed  him.  They  did  not  leave  him  a  minute.  They 
made  him  live  in  spite  of  himself.     And  they  let  the  other 


( 


172 


Brieux 


children  —  the  strong  ones  —  go  to  the  bad.  With  half 
the  money  and  the  fuss  they  wasted  on  the  cripple,  they 
could  have  made  fine  fellows  of  all  the  others. 

Mme.  Tupin.  I  have  to  add  that  all  this  is  not  my 
fault.  My  husband  and  I  worked  like  beasts;  we  ^id 
without  every  kind  of  pleasure  to  try  and  bring  up  our 
children.  If  we  had  wanted  to  slave  more,  I  declare  to 
you  we  couldn't  have  done  it.  And  now  that  we  have 
given  our  lives  for  them,  the  oldest  is  in  hospital,  ruined 
and  done  for  because  he  worked  in  "  a  dangerous  trade  " 
as  they  call  it.  .  .  *.  There  are  too  many  people  in  the 
world.  ...  My  little  girl  had  to  choose  between  starva- 
tion and  the  street.  ...  I'm  only  a  poor  woman,  and  I 
know  what  it  means  to  have  nothing  to  eat,  so  I  forgave 
her. 

Thus  Mme.  Tupin  also  understands  that  It  is 
a  crime  to  add  one  more  victim  to  those  who  are 
born  ill  and  for  whom  society  has  no  place. 

Then  Lucie  faces  the  court, —  Lucie  who  loved 
her  sister  too  well,  and  who,  driven  by  the  same 
conditions  that  killed  Annette,  has  also  been 
compelled  to  undergo  an  abortion  rather  than  have 
a  fourth  child  by  the  man  she  did  not  love  any 
more.  Like  the  Schoolmistress  and  the  Tupins, 
she  is  dragged  before  the  bar  of  justice  to  explain 
her  crime,  while  her  husband,  who  had  forced 
both  Annette  and  Lucie  out  of  the  house,  has 
meanwhile  risen  to  a  high  position  as  a  supporter 


Maternity  173 

of  the  State  with  his  favorite  slogan,  "  Mother- 
hood  is  the  highest  function  of  woman." 

Finally  the  midwife  Thomas  is  called  upon  for 
her  defense. 

Thomas.  A  girl  came  to  me  one  day;  she  was  a  serv- 
ant. She  had  been  seduced  by  her  master.  I  refused  to 
do  what  she  asked  me  to  do:  she  went  and  drowned  her- 
self. Another  I  refused  to  help  was  brought  up  before 
you  here  for  infanticide.  Then  when  the  others  came,  I 
said,  "  Yes."  I  have  prevented  many  a  suicide  and  many 
a  crime. 

It  is  not  likely  that  the  venerable  judge,  the 
State's  attorney  or  the  gentlemen  of  the  jury  can 
see  in  Mme.  Thomas  a  greater  benefactress  to 
society  than  they;  any  more  than  they  can  grasp 
the  deep  importance  of  the  concluding  words  of 
the  counsel  for  the  defense  in  this  great  social  trag- 
edy. 

Counsel  for  the  Defense.  Their  crime  is  not  an  indi- 
vidual crime;  it  is  a  social  crime.  ...  It  is  not  a  crime 
against  nature.  It  is  a  revolt  against  nature.  And  with 
all  the  warmth  of  a  heart  melted  by  pity,  with  all  the 
indignation  of  my  outraged  reason,  I  look  for  that  glori- 
ous hour  of  liberation  when  some  master  mind  shall  dis- 
cover for  us  the  means  of  having  only  the  children  we 
need  and  desire,  release  forever  from  '.he  prison  of  hypoc- 
risy and  absolve  us  from  the  profanation  of  love.  That 
would  indeed  be  a  conquest  of  nature  —  savage  nature 


'I..." 


'i- 


JI-. 


'74 


Brieux 


which  pours  out  life  with  culpable  profusion,  and  sees  it 
disappear  with  indiflFerence. 

Surely  there  can  be  no  doubt  as  to  the  revolu- 
tionary  significance  of  "  Maternity  ":  the  demand 
that  woman  must  be  given  means  to  prevent  con- 
ception of  undesired  and  unloved  children;  that 
she  must  become  free  and  strong  to  choose  the 
father  of  her  child  and  to  decide  the  number  of 
children  sne  is  to  bring  into  the  world,  and  under 

nood  which  can  endure. 


P^ 


THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA 
GEORGE  BERNARD  SHAW 


I 


AM  not  an  ordinary  playwright  in  general 
practice.     I  am  a  specialist  in  immoral  and 
heretical  plays.     My  reputation  has  been 
gained  by  my  persistent  struggle  to  force 
the  public  to  reconsider  its  morals.     In  particular, 
1  regard  much  current  morality  as  to  economic  an  1 
sexual  relations  as  disastrously  wrong;  and  I  regard 
certain  doctrines  of  the  Christian  religion  as  under- 
stood in  England  to-day  with  abhorrence.     I  write 
plays  with  the  deliberate  object  of  converting  the  , 
nation  to  my  opinions  in  these  matters  " 

This  confession  of  faith  should  leave  no  doubt 
as  to  the  place  of  George  Bernard  Shaw  in  modern 
dramatic  art  Yet,  strange  to  say,  he  is  among  the 
most  doubted  of  his  time.  That  is  partly  due  t,- 
the  fact  that  humor  generally  serves  merc'y  m 
amuse,  touching  only  the  lighter  side  of  life.  But 
there  is  a  kind  of  humor  that  fills  laughter  wit^ 
tears,  a  humor  that  eats  into  the  soul  like  acid,  leav- 
ing marks  often  deeper  than  those  made  by  the 
tragic  form.  ^ 

There  is  another  reason  why  Shaw's  sincerity  is 
regarded  lightly:  it  is  to  be  found  in  the  difference 

»7S 


II, 


176 


George  Bernard  Shaw 


««! 


of  his  scope  as  propagandist  and  as  artist.     As  the 
propagandist  Shaw  is  hmited,  dogmatic,  and  set. 
Indeed,  the  most  zealous  Puritan  could  not  be  more 
antagonistic  to  social  theories  differing  from  his 
own.     But  the  artist,  if  he  is  sincere  at  all,  must  go 
to  life  as  the  source  of  his  inspiration,  and  life  is 
beyond  dogmas,  beyond  the  House  of  Commons, 
beyond  even  the  **  eternal  and  irrevocable  law  "  of 
the  materialistic  conception  of  history.     If,  then, 
the  Socialist  propagandist  Shaw  is  often  lost  in  the 
artist  Shaw,  it  is  not  because  he  lacks  sincerity,  but 
because  life  will  not  be  curtailed. 

It  may  be  contended  that  Shaw  is  much  more  the 
propagandist  than  the  artist  because  he  paints  in 
loud  colors.     But  that  is  rather  because  of  the  in- 
dolence of  the  human  mind,  especially  of  the  An- 
glo-Saxon mind,  which  has  settled  down  snugly  to 
the  self-satisfied  notion  of  its  purity,  justice,  and 
charity,  so  that  naught  but  the  strongest  current  of 
light  will  make  it  wince.     In  "  Mrs.  Warren's  Pro- 
fession"   and  "Major  Barbara,"   George   Ber- 
nard  Shaw  has  accomplished  even  more.     He  has 
pulled  off  the  mask  of  purity  and  Christian  kind- 
ness  that  we  may  see  their  hidden  viciousness  at 
work. 

MRS.  WARREN'S  PROFESSION 

Mrs.  Warren  is  engaged  in  a  profession  which 
has  existed  through  all  the  ages.     It  was  at  home 


Mrs,  Warren's    Profession  lyj 

in  Egypt,  played  an  important  role  in  Greece  and 
Rome   formed  one  of  the  influential  guilds  in  the 
Middle  Ages,  and  has  been  one  of  the  main  source 
of  income  for  the  Christian  Church. 

War"ren'sTr^f '  '"  '"'^""  ^'""  ^°  "^'^^  °^  ^"• 
warren  8  profession  a  tremendous  social  factor 

ministering  to  the  needs  of  man  n  every  station  o^ 

from  r"I-  k'  ^'T"''"""  "^'"^'°"  ^°  f'»e  hovel, 
from  the  highest  official  to  the  poorest  drag 

Time  was  when  the  Mrs.  Warrens  were  looked 
upon  as  possessed  by  the  devil,- lewd,  depraved 
creatures  who  would  not,  even  if  they  had  the 
choice,  engage  in  any  other  profession,  because 
they  are  vicious  at  heart,  and  should  therefore  be 
held    up    to    condemnation    and    obloquy.     And 
wh,  e  we  continue  to  drive  them  from  pilL,;  to 
post,  while  we  still  punish  them  as  criminals  and 
deny  them  the  simplest  humanities  one  gives  e  en 
to  the  dumb  beast,  the  light  turned  on  this  subject 
by  men  l.ke  George  Bernard  Shaw  has  helped  to 
expose  the  lie  of  inherent  evil  tendencies  and  „at! 
ural  depravity.     Instead  we  learn  : 

Afn    fVarren.     Do  you   think  I  did  what  I  did  be 
cause  I  I.ked  it.  or  thought  it  right,  or  wouldn't    athe 

Z.^'  "oh""?  ^"'  '^■^"  ^  '^'^  '  ''  ^  "'^e 

Here    ■   *  'w     u  T7   '"  ''^^'   ^"^  ^^^>''   '-'*  «>? 

No  To.     ,     '        /?  ''"""  '''^''  ^""^  Rran'..other  was? 
No,  you  don  t.     I  do.     She  called  herself  a  wfdow  and 


MKROCOnr   RBOUJTKm   TBT  CHART 

(ANSI  and  (SO  TEST  CHART  No.  2) 


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^    APPLIED  IM^GE 


1653   East   Main   Street 

Rochester.   Ne»   York        t*609       USA 

(716)   «2  -  0300  -  Phone 

(716)   288-5989  -  Fa« 


178 


George  Bernard  Shaw 


had  a  fried-fish  shop  dowii  by  the  Mint,  and  kept  her- 
self and  four  daughters  out  of  it.  Two  of  us  were  sis- 
ters :  that  was  me  and  Liz ;  and  we  were  both  good  look- 
ing and  well  made.  I  suppose  our  father  was  a  well  fed' 
man:  mother  pretended  he  was  a  gentleman;  but  I  don't 
faiuw.  The  other  two  were  only  half  sisters  —  under- 
sized, ugly,  starved,  hard  working,  honest  poor  creatures: 
Liz  and  I  would  have  half  murdered  them  if  mother 
hadn't  half  murdered  us  to  keep  our  hands  of!  them. 
They  were  the  respeqtable  ones.  Well,  what  did  they 
get  by  their  respectability?  I'll  tell  you.  One  of  them 
worked  in  a  whitelead  factory  twelve  hours  a  day  for 
nine  shillings  a  week  until  she  died  of  lead  poisoning. 
She  only  expected  to  get  her  hands  a  little  paralyzed; 
but  she  died.  The  other  was  always  held  up  to  us  as  a 
model  because  she  married  a  Government  laborer  in  the 
Deptford  victualling  yard,  and  kept  his  room  and  the 
three  children  neat  and  tidy  on  eighteen  shillings  a  week 
—  until  he  took  to  drink.  That  was  worth  being  re- 
spectable for,  wasn't  it? 

Vivie.     Did  you  and  your  sister  think  so  ? 

Mrs.  Warren.  Liz  didn't,  I  can  tell  you;  she  had 
more  spirit.  We  both  went  to  a  Church  School  —  that 
was  part  of  the  lady-like  airs  we  gave  ourselves  to  be 
superior  to  the  diildren  that  knew  nothing  and  went  no- 
where—  and  we  stayed  there  until  Liz  went  out  one 
night  and  never  came  back.  I  knew  the  schoolmistress 
thought  I'd  soon  follow  her  example;  for  the  clergyman 
was  always  warning  me  that  Lizzie  'd  end  by  jumping 
off  Waterloo  Bridge.  Poor  fool:  that  was  all  that  he 
knew  about  it  I    But  I  was  more  afraid  of  the  whitelead 


Mrs.  Warren's    Profession  179 

factory  than  I  was  of  the  river;  and  so  would  you  have 
been  in  my  place.  That  clergyman  got  me  a  situation  as 
a  scullery  maid  in  a  temperance  restaurant  where  they 
sent  out  for  anything  you  liked.  Then  I  was  waitress; 
and  then  I  went  to  the  bar  at  Waterloo  Station  —  four- 
teen hours  a  day  serving  drinks  and  washing  glasses  for 
four  shillings  a  week  and  my  board.  That  was  consid- 
ered a  great  promotion  for  me.  Well,  one  col<\  wretched 
night,  when  I  was  so  tired  I  could  hardly  keep  myself 
awake,  who  should  come  up  for  a  half  of  Scotch  but 
Lizzie,  in  a  long  fur  cloak,  elegant  and  comfortable,  with 
a  lot  of  sovereigns  in  her  purse. 
Vivie.     My  aunt  Lizzie? 

Mrs.  fVarren.    Yes.  .  .  .  She's  living  down  at  Win- 
chester, now,  close  to  the  cathedral,  one  of  the  most  re- 
spectable ladies  there-— chaperones  girls  at  the  country 
ball,  if  you  please.     No  river  for  Liz,  thank  you!    You 
remind  me  of  Liz  a  little:  she  was  a  first-rate  business 
woman  — saved  money  from  the  beginning  —  never  let 
herself  look  too  like  what  she  was  — never  lost  her  head 
or  threw  away  a  chance.    When  she  saw  I'd  grown  up 
good-looking  she  said  to  me  across  the  bar:  "What  are 
you   doing   there,   you   little   fool?    Wearing  out   your 
health  and  your  appearance  for  other  people's  profit!" 
Liz  was  saving  money  then  to  take  a  house  for  herself 
in  Brussels:  and  she  thought  we  two  could  save  faster 
than  one.     So  she  lent  me  some  money  and  gave  me  a 
start;  and  I  saved  steadily  and  first  paid  her  back,  and 
then  went  into  business  witL  her  as  her  partner.    Why 
shouldn't  I  have  done  it?    The  house  in  Brussels  was 
real  high  class  — a  much  better  place  for  a  woman  to 


M 


i8o 


George  Bernard  Shaw 


be  ,n  than  the  factory  where  Anne  Jane  got  poisoned. 
None  of  our  girls  were  ever  treated  as  I  was  treated  irt 
the  scullery  of  that  temperance  place,  or  at  the  Waterloo 
bar,  or  at  home.     Would  you  have  had  me  stay  in  them 
and  become  a  worn-out  old  drudge  before  I  was  forty? 
...  Yes,  saving  money.     But  where  can  a  won- an  get  the 
money  to  save  in  any  other  business?    Could  you  save 
out  of  four  shillings  ;a  week  and  keep  yourself  dressed 
as  well?    Not  you.    Of  course,  if  you're  a  plain  woman 
and  can  t  earn  anything  more:  or  if  you  have  a  turn  for 
music,  or  the  stage,  or  newspaper  writing:  that's  differ- 
ent.    But  neither  Liz  nor  I  had  any  turn  for  such  things: 
all  we  had  was  our  appearance  and  our  turn  for  pleas- 
mg  men.     Do  you  think  we  were  such  fools  as  to  let 
other  peoph  trade  in  our  good  looks  by  employing  us  as 
shop-girls,   or  barmaids,  or  waitresses,  when  we  could 
trade  in  them  ourselves  and  get  aU  the  profits  instead  of 

starvation  wages?    Not  likely Everybody  dislikes 

havmg  to  work  and  make  money;  but  they  have  to  do  it 
all  the  same.     I'm  sure  I've  often  pitied  a  poor  girl,  tired 
out  and  in  low  spirits,  having  to  try  to  please  some  man 
that  she  doesn't  care  two  straws  for  — some  half-drunken 
fool  that  thinb  he's  making  himself  agreeable  when  he's 
teasing  and  worrying  and  disgusting  a  woman  so  that 
hardly  any  money  could  pay  her  for  putting  up  with  it. 
But  she  has  to  bear  with  disagreeables  and  take  the  rough 
with  the  smooth,  just  like  a  nurse  in  a  hospital  or  any- 
one else.    It's  not  work  that  any  woman  would  do  for 
pleasure,  goodness  knows;  though  to  hear  the  pious  peo- 
ple talk  you  would  suppose  it  was  a  bed  of  roses.     Of 
course  it's  worth  while  to  a  poor  girl,  if  she  can  resist 


Mrs.  Warren's    Profession  i8i 

temptation  and  Is  good  looking  and  well<onducted  and 
sensible.     It's  far  better  than  any  other  employment  open 
to  her.     I  always  thought  that  oughtn't  to  be.     It  can't 
be  right,  Vivie,  that  there  shouldn't  be  better  opportu- 
nities for  women.     I  stick  to  that:  It's  wrong.     But  it's 
so,  right  or  wrong;  and  a  girl  must  make  the  best  of  it 
But,  of  course,  it's  not  worth  while  for  a  lady.     If  you 
took  to  it  you'd  be  a  fool;  but  I  should  have  been  a  fool 
•f  I  d  taken  to  anything  else Why  am  I  independ- 
ent and  able  to  give  my  daughter  a  first-rate  education, 
when  other  women  that  had  just  as  good  opportunities 
are  in  the  gutter?    Because  I  always  knew  how  to  re- 
spect  myself  and  control  myself.     Why  is  Liz  looked  up 
to   in    a   cathedral    town?    The   same   reason.    Where 
would  we  be  now  if  we'd  minded  the  clergyman's  foolish- 
ness?    Scrubbing  floors  for  one  and  sixpence  a  day  and 
nothing  to  look  forward  to  but  the  workhouse  infirmary. 
Uont  you  be  led  astray  by  people  who  don't  know  the 
world,  my  girl.     The  only  way  for  a  woman  to  provide 
for  herself  decently  is  for  her  to  be  good  to  some  man 
that  can  aflFord  to  be  good  to  her.     If  she's  in  his  own 
station  of  life,  let  her  make  him  marry  her;  but  if  she's 
far  beneath  him,  she  can't  expect  it  — why  should  she> 
It  wouldn't  be  for  her  own  happiness.     Ask  any  lady  in 
London  society  that  has  daughters;  and  she'll  tell  you  the 
same,  except  that  I  tell  you  straight  and  she'll  tell  you 

crooked.     That's  all  the  difference It's  only  good 

manners  to  be  ashamed  of  it;  it's  expected  from  a  woman. 
Women  have  to  pretend  a  great  deal  that  they  don't  feel 
Liz  used  to  be  angry  with  me  for  plumping  out  the  truth 
about  It.     She  used  to  say  that  when  every  woman  would 


i 


i;[; 


1 82 


George  Bernard  Shaw 


II 


learn  enough  from  w  hat  was  going  on  in  the  world  before 
her  eyes,  there  was  no  need  to  talk  about  it  to  her.     But 
then  Liz  was  such  a  perfect  lady!     She  had  the  true  in- 
stinct of  it;  while  I  was  always  a  bit  of  a  vulgarian.    'I 
used  to  be  so  pleased  when  you  sent  me  your  photographs 
to  see  that  you  were  growing  up  like  Liz ;  you've  just  her 
lady-like  determined  way.     But  I  can't  stand  saying  one 
thing  when  everyone  knows  I  mean  another.     What's  the 
use  in  such  hypocrisy?     If  perole  arrange  the  world  that 
way  for  women,  there's  no  use  pretending  that  it's  ar- 
ranged the  other  way.     I  never  was  a  bit  ashamed  really. 
I  consider  that  I  had  a  right  to  be  proud  that  we  man- 
aged everything  so  respectably,  and  never  had  a  word 
again:'  us,  and  that  the  girls  were  so  well  taken  care  of. 
Some  of  them  did  very  v^ell:  one  of  them  married  an 
ambassador.     But  of  course  now   I   daren't   talk  about 
such  things:  whatever  would  they  think  of  us. 

No,  it  is  not  respectable  to  talk  about  these 
things,  because  respectability  cannot  face  the 
truth.  Yet  everybody  knows  that  the  majority 
of  women,  "  if  they  wish  to  provide  for  them- 
selves decently  must  be  good  to  some  man  that 
can  afford  to  be  good  to  them."  The  only  differ- 
ence  then  between  Sister  Liz,  the  respectable  girl, 
and  Mrs.  Warren,  is  hypocrisy  and  legal  sanc- 
tion. Sister  Liz  uses  her  money  to  buy  back  her 
reputation  from  the  Church  and  Society.  The  re- 
spectable girl  uses  the  sanction  of  the  Church  to 
buy  a  decent  income  legitimately,  and  Mrs.  War- 


i  i 


r 


Mrs.  Warren's    Profession  183 

ren  plays  her  game  without  the  sanction  of  either. 
Hence  she  is  the  greatest  criminal  in  the  eyes  of 
the  world.     Yet  Mrs.  Warren  is  no  less  human 
than  most  other  women.     In  fact,  as  far  as  her 
love  for  her  daughter  Vivian  is  concerned,  she  is 
a  superior  sort  of  mother.     That  her  daughter 
may  not  have  to  face  the  same  alternative  as  she, 
—  slave  in  a  scullery  for  four  shillings  a  week  — 
Mrs.  Warren  surrounds  the  girl  with  comfort 
and  ease,  gives  her  an  education,  and  thereby  es- 
tablishes  between  her  child  and  herself  an  abyss 
which    nothing    can    bridge.     Few    respectable 
mothers  would  do  as  much  for  their  daughters. 
However,    Mrs.    Warren    remains    the    outcast, 
while  all  those  who  benefit  by  her  profession,  in- 
cluding even  her  daughter  Vivian,  move  in  the 
best  circles. 

Sir  John  Crofts,  Mrs.  Warren's  business  part- 
ner,  who  has  invested  40,000  pounds  in  Mrs. 
Warren's  house,  drawing  an  income  of  35  per 
cent,  out  of  it  in  the  worst  years,  is  a  recognized 
pillar  of  society  and  an  honored  member  of  his 
class.     Why  not ! 

Crofts.  The  fact  is,  it's  not  what  would  be  considered 
exactly  a  high-class  business  in  my  set  —  the  county  set, 
you  know.  ...  Not  that  there  is  any  mystery  about  it: 
don't  think  that.  Of  course  you  know  by  your  mother's 
being  in  it  that  it's  perfectly  straight  and  honest.  I've 
known  her  for  many  years;  and  I  can  say  of  her  that 


II 


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1 84 


George  Bernard  Shaw 


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she'd  cut  off  her  hands  sooner  than  touch  anything  that 
was  not  what  it  ought  to  be.  .  .  .  But  you  see  you  can't 
mention  such  things  in  society.     Once  let  out  the  word 
hotel  and  everybody  says  you  keep  a  public-house.    You 
wouldn't  like  people  to  say  that  of  your  mother,  would 
you?     That's  why  we're  so  reserved  about  it.  .  .  .  Don't 
turn  up  your  nose  at  business,  Miss  Vivie:  where  would 
your  Newnhams  and  Girtons  be  without  it?  .  .  .  You 
wouldn't  refuse  the  acquaintance  of  my  mother's  cousin, 
the  Duke  of  Belgravia,  because  some  of  the  lents  he  gets 
are  earned  in  queer  Ways.    You  wouldn't  cut  the  Arch- 
bishop of  Canterbury,  I  suppose,  because  the  Ecclesiasti- 
cal  Commissioners  have   a   few   publicans   and   sinners 
among  their  tenants?     Do  you   remember  your  Crofts 
scholarship  at  Newnham?    Well,  that  was  founded  by 
my  brother  the  M.P.     He  gets  his  22  per  cent,  out  of  a 
factory  with  600  girls  in  it,  and  not  one  of  them  getting 
wages  enough  to  live  on.     How  d'  ye  suppose  most  of 
them  manage?    Ask  your  mother.    And  do  you  expect 
me  to  turn  my  back  on  35  per  cent,  when  all  the  rest  are 
pocketing  what  they  can,  like  sensible  men?    No  such 
fool!     If  you're  going  to  pick  and  choose  your  acquaint- 
ances on  moral  principles,  you'd  better  clear  out  of  this 
country,  unless  you  want  to  cut  yourself  out  of  all  decent 
society.  .  .  .  The  world  isn't  such  a  bad  place  as  the 
croakers  make  out.     So  long  as  you  don't  fly  openly  in 
the  face  of  society,  society  doesn't  ask  any  inconvenient 
questions;  and  it  makes  precious  short  work  of  the  cads 
who  do.    There   are   no   secrets  better   kept   than   the 
secrets  that  everybody  guesses.     In  the  society  I  can  in- 
troduce you  to,  nc  lady  or  gentleman  would  so  far  forget 


Mrs.  Warren's    Profession 


•8s 


themselves  as   to   discuss   my   business   affairs   or  your 
mother's. 

Indeed,  no  lady  or  gentleman  would  discuss  the 
profession  of  Mrs.  IVarren  and  her  confreres. 
But  they  partake  of  the  dividends.  When  the 
evil  becomes  too  crying,  they  engage  in  vice  cru- 
sades, and  call  down  the  wrath  of  the  Lord  and 
the  brutality  of  the  police  upon  the  Mrs.  Warrens 
and  her  victims.  While  the  victimizers,  the 
Crofts,  the  Canterburys,  Rev.  Gardner  — 
Vivian's  own  father  and  pious  mouthpiece  of  the 
Church  —  and  the  other  patrons  of  Mrs.  War- 
ren's houses  parade  as  the  protectors  of  woman, 
the  home  and  the  family. 

To-day  ho  one  of  the  least  intelligence  denies 
the  cruelty,  the  injustice,  the  outrage  of  such  a 
state  of  affairs,  any  more  than  it  is  being  denied 
that  the  training  of  woman  as  a  sex  commodity 
has  left  her  anv  other  source  of  income  except  to 
sell  herself  to  oae  man  within  marriage  or  to  many 
men  outside  of  marriage.  Only  bigots  and  inex- 
perienced girls  like  Vivian  can  say  that  "  every- 
body has  some  choice.  The  poorest  girl  alive 
may  not  be  able  to  choose  between  being  Queen  of 
England  or  Principal  of  Newnham;  but  she  can 
choose  between  rag-picking  and  flower-selling,  ac- 
cording to  her  taste." 

It  is  astonishing  how  little  education  and  col- 
lege  degrees   teach   people.     Had   Vivian   been 


i  ( 
ij 


XX 


ll 


1 86 


George  Bernard  Shaw 


i  hi 


,W  hr^^  ""u^"  "g-Picking  nor  flower-sell- 

ing  brings  enough  to  satisfy  one's  "  taste  "     It  i, 

ill,'  .^""""."."f  .choice,  but  of  necessity,  which 

S7I     "/,."""'"«  ''""  '"  "«>«  people's  ives 
When  Shaw  flung  Mr,.  H'.rZ  L  th    slg 

m  dst  of  society,  even  the  educated  Vivians  knew 
.ttle  of  the  compelling  force  which  whip,  diou- 
sands  of  women   into  prostitution.     As  to  the 
■gnorant,  the..-  minds  are  a  mental  and  spiritual 
•t  stlilco^-'"™"^  ""  P''^  ""'"i  consternato" 
c'ial   bul      "  M  '°  «7'  "  ""  "<•  "8  '<>  *e  .0. 
nates  because  ,t  goes  to  the  bottom  of  our  evil"- 
because  ,t  places  the  accusing  finger  upon   the 
»orest  and  most  damnable  spot  i„  our  s^Habric 
-SEX  as  woman's  only  commodity  in  the  competi- 
t>ve  market  of  life.     "  An  immoral  and  --rXl 
play,     mdeed,  of  very  deep  social  significance. 

MAJOR  BARBARA 

•'Major  Barbara  "  is  of  still  greater  social 
.mportance  masmuch  as  it  points  to  the  fact  tha 
wh,  e  char,ty  and  religion  are  supposed  to  J^l 
ter  to  the  poor,  both  institutions  derive  their  main 
revenue  from  the  poor  by  the  perpetuation  o^the 
evils  both  pretend  to  fight.  ™n  ot  tlie 

M.jor  Barbara,  the  daughter  of  the  world  re- 


iili 


Major  Barbara 


■87 


nowned  cannon  manufacturer  Undcrshaft,  ha 
joined  the  Salvation  Army.  The  latter  lays  claim 
to  being  the  most  humane  religious  institution,  be- 
cause —  unlike  other  soul  savers  —  it  does  not  en- 
tirely forget  the  needs  of  the  body.  It  also 
teaches  that  the  greater  the  sinner  the  more  glor- 
ious the  saving.  But  as  no  one  is  quite  as  black 
as  he  is  painted,  it  becomes  necessary  for  those 
who  want  to  be  saved,  and  incidentally  to  profit  by 
the  Salvation  Army,  to  invent  sins  —  the  blacker 
the  better. 

Rummy.  What  am  I  to  do?  I  can't  starve.  Them 
Salvation  iiasses  is  dear  girls;  but  the  better  you  are  the 
worse  they  likes  to  think  you  were  Sefore  they  rescued 
you.  Why  shouldn't  they  'av'  a  bit  o'  credit,  poor  loves? 
They're  worn  to  rags  by  their  work.  And  where  would 
they  get  the  money  to  rescue  us  if  we  was  to  let  on  we're 
no  worse  than  other  people?  You  know  what  ladies 
and  gentlemen  are. 

Price.  Thievin'  swine!  .  .  .  We're  companions  in 
misfortune,  Rummy.  .  .  . 

Rummy.  Who  saved  you,  Mr.  Price?  Was  it  Major 
Barbara  ? 

Price.  No:  I  come  here  on  my  own.  I'm  goin'  to 
be  Bronterre  O'Brien  Price,  the  converted  painter.  I 
know  wot  they  like.  I'll  tell  'em  how  I  blasphemed  and 
gambled    nd  wopped  my  poor  old  mother  — 

Rummy.     Usfd  you  to  beat  your  mother? 

Price.  Not  ikely.  She  used  to  beat  me.  No  mat- 
ter: you  come  and  listen  to  the  converted  painter,  and 
you'll  hear  how  she  was  a  pious  woman  that  taught  me 


m 


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;N 


'I'i 

li 


i88 


George  Bernard  Shaw 


I 


to  be  whispered  to  one  iadv  at  a  tim.      i.     •  .      •  . 
•Pite  of  all  their  piety.  ^'-     '*  "'"  '  "2''^' 

PnV.     Righ^I    Do  you  suppo«.  the  Army'd   be  aL 

put  upon.     But  1 11  play  the  game  as  good  as  any  of  'em 

1  il  see  somebody  struck   bv  liphfnm'  u 

«flvm'   "  c    UL    T.  :    "*-'  °y  "gntnin ,  or  hear  a  voice 

It  is  inevitable  that  the  Salvation  Army,  like  all 
other  rehgious  and  ch=-!table  institutions  Zm 
by  us  very  character  f.,„er  cowardice  and  hypoc 
nsya,  a  premium  securing  entry  into  he"e„  '' 

of^JZ  f"  "'"'  *"'"«  "  "°"«'  '"  »  ignorant 
of  th«  as  she  13  unaware  of  the  source  of  the  monev 

wh,ch  sustain,  her  and  the  work  of  the  Sal"/ 
hon  Army.     She  consistently  refuses  to  a„ep 
*' .  ""'      'ce  sovereign  "  of  BUI  ffalkerZl 

&th"e'Armv''c"''°"   '■""'•     ^"^   '°  ^"• 

thTL^T'     ?^^  Commissioner.     She  is  dyed  in 

he  wool  m  the  profession  of  begging  and  wS 

take  money  from  the  devil  himsdf^'.f",  ^e 


Major  Barbara 


189 


Glory  of  God,"—  the  Glory  of  God  which  con- 
sists  in  "taking  out  ti  i  anger  and  bitterness 
against  the  rich  from  the  hearts  of  the  poor,"  a 
service  "  gratifying  and  convenient  for  all  large 
employers."  No  wonder  the  whisky  distillc 
Bodger  makes  the  generous  contribution  of  5000 
pounds  and  Undershaft  adds  his  own  little  mite 
of  anothe    5000. 

Barbara  is  indeed  ignorant  or  she  would  not 
protest  against  a  fact  so  notorioi's: 

Barbara.  Do  you  know  what  my  father  is?  Have 
you  forgotten  that  Lord  Saxmundham  is  Bodger  the 
whisky  man?  Do  you  remember  how  we  implored  the 
County  Council  to  stop  him  from  writing  Bodger's 
Whisky  in  letters  of  fire  against  the  sky ;  so  that  the  poor 
dnnk-ruined  creatures  on  the  embar  lent  could  not 
wake  up  from  their  snatches  of  sleep  hout  being  re- 
minded of  their  deadly  thirst  by  that  wicked  sky  sign? 
Do  you  know  that  the  worst  thing  that  I  have  had  to 
fight  here  is  not  the  devil,  but  Bodger,  Bodger,  Bodger 
with  his  whisky,  his  distilleries,  and  his  tied  houses? 
Are  you  going  to  make  our  shelter  another  tied  house,  for 
him,  and  ask  me  to  keep  it? 

Undershaft.  My  dear  Barbara:  alcohol  is  a  very 
necessary  article,  ft  heals  the  sick—  ...  It  assists  the 
doctor:  that  is  perhaps  a  less  questionable  way  of  put- 
ting it.  It  makes  life  bearable  to  millions  of  people  who 
could  not  endure  their  existence  if  they  were  quite  sober. 
It  enables  Parliament  to  do  tMngs  at  eleven  at  night 
that  no  sane  person  would  do  at  eleven  in  the  morning. 


til 


.'!. 


:i. 


^ 


Ipl ' 


190  George  Bernard  Shaw 

Mrs.  Baines.     Barbara:  Lord   Saxmundham  gives  us 
wXf  '°  ''°'  d-t-g-to  take  his  ownLin<^s 

Undershaft.     I  also,  Mrs.  Baines.  may  claim  a  little 
d.s.nterestedness     Think  of  my  business'   think  If  the 

u.th  shrapnel  and  poisoned  with  lyddite!  the  oceans  0I 
blood    not  one  drop  of  which  is  shed  in  a  really  just 
cause!  the  ravaged  crops!  the  peaceful  peasants  for  ed 
women  and  men.  to  till  their  fields  under  the  fire  of  ot' 
posmg  armies  on  pain  of  starvation!  the  bad  blood  of  the 
fierce  cowards  at  home  who  egg  on  others  to  fight    or 
the    gratification    of   national    vanity!    All    this   makl 
money  for  me:  I  am  never  richer.  nL  busier  t  an  when 
the  papers  are  full  of  it.     Well,  it  is  your  work  to  preach 
peace  on  earth  and  good  will  to  men.     Every  convert 
you  make  IS  a  vote  against  war.    Yet  I  give  you  thi 
money  to  hasten  my  own  commercial  ruin. 

hasftulorsakeTLT^  "'  ^"^'"'     ^^  ^^'  ^^^ 

However,  Barbara's  indignation  does  not  last 
veiy  long  any  more  than  that  of  her  aristocratic 
mother,  LadyBnjomart,  who  has  no  use  for  her 
plebeian    husband    except    when    she   needs    his 

T"'!;  /'[".'^'t  ^'^^^^'^'  ^'^  ««"'  ^-^  become 
converted,  hke  5«r^,,,,  „ot  to  the  Glory  Halle! 

lujah  of  the  Salvation  Army  but  to  the  power 
of  money  and  cannon.  Likewise  the  rest  of  the 
family,  mduding  the  Greek  Scholar  Cusins,  Bar. 
bora  s  suitor.  ' 


Major  Barbara 


191 


During  the  visit  to  their  father's  factory  the 
Undershaft  family  makes  several  discoveries. 
They  learn  that  the  best  modern  method  of  ac- 
cumulating a  large  fortune  consists  in  organizing 
industries  in  such  a  manner  as  to  make  the  work- 
ers content  with  their  slavery.  It's  a  model  fac- 
tory. 

Undershaft.  It  is  a  spotlessly  clean  and  beautiful  hill- 
side town.  There  are  two  chapels :  a  Primitive  one  and 
a  sophisticated  one.  There's  even  an  ethical  society ;  but 
it  is  not  much  patronized,  as  my  men  are  all  strongly 
religious.  In  the  high  explosives  sheds  they  object  to  the 
presence  of  agnostics  as  unsafe. 

The  family  further  learns  that  it  is  not  high 
moral  precepts,  patriotic  love  of  country,  or  sim- 
ilar sentiments  that  are  the  backbone  of  the  life 
of  the  nation.  It  is  Undershaft  again  who  en- 
lightens them  of  the  power  of  money  and  its  role 
in  dictating  governmental  policies,  making  war  or 
peace,  and  shaping  the  destinies  of  man. 

Undershaft.  The  government  of  your  country.  /  am 
the  government  of  your  country:  I,  and  Lazarus.  Do 
you  suppose  that  you  and  a  half  a  dozen  amateurs  like 
you,  sitting  in  a  row  in  that  foolish  gabble  shop,  can 
govern  Undershaft  and  Lazarus?  No,  my  friend:  you 
will  do  what  pays  us.  You  will  make  war  when  it  suits 
us,  and  keep  peace  when  it  doesn't.  You  will  find  out 
that  trade  requires  certain  measures  when  we  have  dc- 


/Jfi' 


in^ 


wH 


m 


192 


George  Bernard  Shaw 


cided   on   those  measures.    When   I  want  anything  to 
keep  my  dividends  up.  you  will  discover  that  my  want  is 
a  nationa^  need.     When  other  people  want  something  to 
keep  my  dividends  down,  you  will  call  out  the  police  and 
military.    And  in  return  you  shaU  have  the  support  and 
applause  of  my  newspapers,  and  the  delight  of  imagining 
that  you  are  a  great  statesman.    Government  of  your 
country!     Be  oflF  with  you.  my  boy.  and  play  with  your 
caucuses  and  leading  articles  and  historic  parties  and  great 
leaders  and  burning  questions  and  the  rest  of  your  toys 
I  am  going  back  to  my  counting  house  to  pay  the  piper 
and  call  the  tyne.  ...  To  give  arms  to  all  men  who 
oflFer  an  honest  price  for  them,  without  respect  of  persons 
or  pnncples:  to  Aristocrat  and  Republican,  to  Nihilist 
and  Tsar,  to  Capitalist  and  Socialist,  to  Protestant  and 
Catholic   to  burglar  and  policeman,  to  black  man.  white 
man,  and  yellow  man.  to  all  sorts  and  conditions,  all  na- 
tionalities  all  faiths,  all  follies,  all  causes  and  all  crimes. 
...  1  will  take  an  order  from  a  good  man  as  cheerfully 
as  from  a  bad  one.     If  you  good  people  prefer  preaching 
and  shirking  to  buying  my  weapons  and  fighting  the  ras- 
cals,  dont  blame  me.     I  can  make  cannons:  I  cannot 
make  courage  and  conviction. 

That  is  just  it.  The  Undershafts  cannot  make 
conviction  and  courage;  yet  both  are  indispens- 
able  if  one  is  to  see  that,  in  the  words  of  Under- 
shaft: 

"Cleanliness  and  respectability  do  not  need  justifica- 
tion :  they  justify  themselves.  There  are  millions  of  poor 
people,  abject  people,  dirty  people,  ill  fed,   ill  clothed 


i:  ;  i 


Major  Barbara  i^^ 

people.    They  poison  us  morally  and  physically:  they  kill 
the  happiness  of  society:    they  force  us  to  do  away  with 
our  own  liberties  and  to  organize  unnatural  cruelties  for 
fear  they  should  rise  against  us  and  drag  us  down  into 
their  abyss.    Only  fools  fear  crime:  we  all  fear  poverty. 
I  had  rather  be  a  thief  than  a  pauper.     I  had  rather  be 
a  murderer  than  a  slave.     I  don't  want  to  be  either;  but 
If  you  force  the  alternative  on  me,  then,  by  Heaven   I'll 
choose  the  braver  and  more  moral  one.     I  hate  poverty 
and  slavery  worse  than  any  other  crimes  whatsoever." 

Cusins,  the  scientist,  realizes  the  force  of  Un- 
dershaf^s  argument.  Long  enough  have  the 
people  been  preached  at,  and  intellectual  power 
used  to  enslave  them. 

Cusins.  As  a  teacher  of  Greek  I  gave  the  intellectual 
man  weapons  against  the  common  man.  I  now  want  to 
give  the  common  man  weapons  against  the  intellectual 
man.  I  love  the  common  people.  I  want  to  arm  them 
against  the  lawyer,  the  doctor,  the  priest,  the  literary 
man,  the  professor,  the  artist,  and  the  politician,  who. 
once  in  authority,  are  the  most  dangerous,  disastrous,  and 
tyrannical  of  all  the  fools,  rascals,  and  impostors. 

This  thought  is  perhaps  the  most  revolutionary 
sentiment  in  the  whole  play,  in  view  of  the  fact 
that  the  people  everywhere  are  enslaved  by  the 
awe  of  the  lawyer,  the  professor,  and  the  poli- 
tician,  even  more  than  by  the  club  and  gun.  It  is 
the  lawyer  and  the  politician  who  poison  the 


'  iiL 

I  fin 


♦         ; 


*!      i: 


194 


George  Bernard  Shaw 


people  with  "  the  germ  of  briefs  and  politics," 
thereby  unfitting  them  for  the  only  effective  course 
in  the  great  social  struggle  —  action,  resultant 
from  the  realization  that  poverty  and  inequality 
never  have  been,  never  can  be,  preached  or  voted 
out  of  existence. 

Undershaft.  Poverty  and  slavery  have  stood  up  for 
centuries  to  your  sermons  and  leading  articles:  they  will 
not  stand  up  to  my  machine  guns.  Don't  preach  at  them ; 
don't  reason  with  them.     Kill  them. 

Barbara.  Killing.  Is  that  your  remedy  for  every- 
thing? 

Undershaft.  It  is  the  final  test  of  conviction,  the  only 
lever  strong  enough  to  overturn  a  social  system,  the  only 
way  of  saying  Must.  Let  six  hundred  and  seventy  fools 
loose  in  the  street;  and  three  policemen  can  scatter  them. 
But  huddle  them  together  in  a  certain  house  in  West- 
minster; and  let  them  go  through  certain  ceremonies  and 
call  themselves  certain  names  until  at  last  they  get  the 
courage  to  kill;  and  your  six  hundred  and  seventy  fools 
become  a  government.  Your  pious  mob  fills  up  ballot 
papers  and  imagines  it  is  governing  its  masters;  but  the 
ballot  paper  that  really  governs  is  the  paper  that  has  a 
bullet  wrapped  up  in  it.  .  .  .  Vote!  Bah!  When  you 
vote  you  only  change  the  names  of  the  cabinet.  When 
you  shoot,  you  pull  down  governments,  inaugurate  new 
epochs,  abolish  old  orders  and  set  up  new.  Is  that  his- 
torically true,  Mr.  Learned  Man,  or  is  it  not? 

Cusins.     It   is  historically   true.     I   loathe  having  to 
admit  it.     I   repudiate  your  sentiments.     I   abhor  your 


Major  Barbara 


195 


nature.     I  defy  you  in  every  possible  way.     Still,  it  is 
true.     But  it  ought  not  to  be  true. 

Undershaft.  Ought,  ought,  ought,  ought,  ought! 
Are  you  going  to  spend  your  life  saying  ought,  like  the 
rest  of  our  moralists?  Turn  your  oughts  into  shells, 
man.  Come  and  make  explosives  with  me.  The  history 
of  the  world  is  the  history  of  those  who  had  the  courage 
to  embrace  this  truth. 

"  Major  Barbara  "  is  one  or  the  most  revolu- 
tionary plays.  In  any  other  but  dramatic  form 
the  sentiments  uttered  therein  would  have  con- 
demned the  author  to  long  imprisonment  for  in- 
citing to  sedition  and  violence. 

Sha  /  the  Fabian  would  be  the  first  to  repudiate 
such  utterances  as  rank  Anarchy,  "impractical, 
brain  cracked  and  criminal."  But  Shaw  the 
dramatist  is  closer  to  life  —  closer  to  reality, 
closer  to  the  historic  truth  that  the  people  wrest 
only  as  much  liberty  as  they  have  the  intelligence 
to  want  and  the  courage  to  take. 


■     ;!• 


m 


Kh 


I  iii 


JOHN  GALSWORTHY 

THE  power  of  the  modern  drama  as  an 
interpreter  of  the  pressing  questions  of 
our  time  is  perhaps  nowhere  evident 
as  clearly  as  it  is  in  England  to-day. 

Indeed,  while  other  countries  have  come  al- 
most to  a  standstill  in  dramatic  art,  England  is  the 
most  productive  at  the  present  time.  Nor  can  it 
be  said  that  quantity  has  been  achieved  at  the  ex- 
pense of  quality,  which  is  only  too  often  the  case. 

The  most  prolific  English  dramatist,  John 
Galsworthy,  is  at  the  same  time  a  great  artist 
whose  dramatic  quality  can  be  compared  with  that 
of  only  one  other  living  writer,  namely,  Gerhart 
Hauptmann.  Galsworthy,  even  as  Hauptmann,  is 
neither  a  propagandist  nor  a  moralist.  His 
'ackground  is  life,  "  that  palpitating  life,"  which 
is  the  root  of  all  sorrow  and  joy. 

His  attitude  toward  dramatic  art  is  given  in 
the  following  words : 

"  I  look  upon  the  stage  as  the  great  beacon  light 
of  civilization,  but  the  drama  should  lead  the  so- 
cial thought  of  the  time  and  not  direct  or  dictate  it. 

"  The  great  duty  of  the  dramatist  is  to  present 
life  as  it  really  is.     A  true  story,  if  told  sincerely, 

196 


!      M 


Strife 


197 


Is  the  strongest  moral  argument  that  can  be  put  on 
the  stage.  It  is  the  business  of  the  dramatist  so 
to  present  the  characters  in  his  picture  of  life  that 
the  inherent  moral  is  brought  to  light  without  any 
lecturing  on  his  part. 

"  Moral  codes  in  themselves  are,  after  all,  not 
lasting,  but  a  true  picture  of  life  is.  A  man  may 
preach  a  strong  lesson  in  a  play  which  may  exist 
for  a  day,  but  if  he  succeeds  in  presenting  real  life 
itself  in  such  a  manner  as  to  carry  with  it  a  certain 
moral  inspiration,  the  force  of  the  message  need 
never  be  lost,  for  a  new  interpretation  to  fit  the 
spirit  of  the  time  can  renew  its  vigor  and  power." 
John  Galsworthy  has  undoubtedly  succeeded  in 
presenting  real  life.  It  is  this  that  makes  him  so 
thoroughly  human  and  universal. 


til 


STRIFE 

Not  since  Hauptmann's  "Weavers"  svas 
placed  before  the  thoughtful  public,  has  ther  ap- 
peared anything  more  stirring  than  "  Strife." 

Its  theme  is  a  strike  in  the  Trenartha  Tin 
Plate  Works,  on  the  borders  of  England  and 
Wales.  The  play  largely  centers  about  the  two 
dominant  figures :  John  Anthony,  the  President  of 
the  Company,  rigid,  autocratic  and  uncompromis- 
mg;  he  is  unwilling  to  make  the  slightest  conces- 
sion,  although  the  men  have  been  out   for  six 


1,; 

m 

r 


I' 


|!1 


I  <i\ 


198 


7oA/i  Galsworthy 


months  and  are  in  a  condition  of  scmi-starvatlon. 
On  the  other  hand  there  is  David  Roberts,  an  un- 
compromising  revolutionist,  whose  devotion  to 
the  workers  an.,  the  cause  of  freedom  is  zt  red- 
white  heat.  Between  them  are  the  strikers,  worn 
and  weary  with  the  terrible  struggle,  driven  and 
tortured  by  the  awful  sight  o/  poverty  at  home. 

At  a  directors'  meeting,  attended  by  the  Com- 
pany  s  representatives  from  London,  Ed^ar  An- 
thony,  the  President's  son  and  a  man  of  kindly 
feeling,  pleads  in  behalf  of  the  strikers. 

£j/^flr.  I  don't  see  how  we  can  get  over  it  that  to  go 
on  like  this  means  stan^ation  to  the  men's  wives  and  fam- 
ilies .  .  It  von't  kill  the  shareholders  to  miss  a  divi- 
dend  or  two;  I  don't  see  that  that's  reason  enough  for 
knuckling  under. 

Wilder.  H'm!  Shouldn't  be  a  bit  surprised  if  that 
brute  Roberts  hadn't  got  us  down  here  with  the  very 
same  idea.     I  hate  a  man  with  a  grievance. 

Edgar.  We  didn't  pay  him  enough  for  his  discovery. 
1  always  said  that  at  the  time. 

Wilder.  We  paid  him  five  hundred  and  a  bonus  of 
two  hunared  three  years  later.  If  that's  not  enough! 
What  does  he  v.ant,  for  goodness'  sake? 

Tench.  C  jmpany  made  a  Hundred  thousand  out  of  his 
brains,  and  paid  him  seven  hundred  —  that's  the  way  he 
goes  on,  sir. 

Wilder.  The  man's  a  rank  agitator!  Look  here,  I 
hate  the  Unions.  But  now  we've  got  Harness  here  let's 
get  him  to  settle  the  whole  thing. 


Strife 


199 


Harness,  the  trade  union  official,  speaks  in 
favor  of  compromise.  In  the  beginning  of  the 
strike  the  union  had  withdrawn  its  support,  be- 
cause  the  workers  had  used  their  own  judgment  in 
deciding  to  strike. 

/W„      I'm  quite  frank  with  you.     We  were  forced 

o  withhold  our  support  from  your  men  because  some  of 

their  demands  arc  in  excess  of  current  rates.     I  expect  to 

make  them  withdraw  those  demands  to-day Now   I 

want  to  see  something  fixed  upon  before  I  go  back  io- 
night.  Can't  we  have  don.;  with  this  old-fashio.ied  tug- 
of-war  business?  What  good's  it  doing  you?  Why 
don  t  you  recognize  once  for  all  that  these  people  arc 
men  hke  yourselves,  and  want  what's  good  for  them  just 

as  you  want  what's  good  for  you There's  just  one 

very  simple  question  I'd  like  to  put  to  you.     Will  you  pay 

fhrm?""""  °"^  ^'""^  "'°'"*  ^^*"  ^^^"^  ^°''''''  ^°"  *°  p^y 

Of  course  not.  With  trade  unionism  lacking 
m  true  solidarity,  and  the  workers  not  conscious 
of  their  power,  why  should  tlie  Company  pay  one 
penny  more  ?  David  Roberts  is  the  only  one  who 
fully  understands  the  situation. 

Roberts.  Justice  from  London?  What  are  you  talk- 
mg  about,  Henry  Thomas?  Have  you  gone  silly'  We 
know  very  well  what  we  are  -  discontented  dogp- 
never  satisfied  What  did  the  Chairman  tell  me  u^  in 
London?  That  I  didn't  know  what  I  was  talking  about. 
I  was  a  foolish,  uneducated  man,  that  knew  nothing  of 


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Vii  ii 

200 


John  Galswoithy 


the  want5  of  the  men  I  spoke  fo..  .  .  .  I  have  thi.  to 
say  — and    first    as    to    their    condition.  ...  Ye    can't 
•queeze  them  any  more.     Every  man  of  ms  is  well  nigh 
starvmg.     Ye  wonder  why  I  tell  ye  that?     Every  man 
of  us  .s  going  short.     We  can't  be  no  worse'  off  than 
we  ve  been  these  weeks  past.     Ye  needn't  think  that  bv 
wa.tmg  yell  drive  us  to  come  in.     We'll  die  first,  the 
whole  lot  of  us.     The  men  have  sent  for  y.  to  know 
once  and  for  all  whether  ye  are  going  to  grant  them  thei^ 
demands.  .      .  Ye  know  best  whether  ye  can  afford  your 
tyranny -bMt  this  I  tell  ye:  If  yc  think  the  men  will 
give  way  the  least  part  of  an  inch,  ye're  making  the  worst 
mistake  ye  ever  made.     Ye  think  because  the  Union  is 
not  supportmg  us -more  shame  to  it! -that  we'll  be 
commg  on  our  knees  to  you  one  fine  morning.     Ye  think 
because  the  men   have  got  their  wives  an'   families  to 
thmk    of -that    It's    just    a   question    of   a   week    or 
two —  .  .  . 

The  appalling  state  of  the  strikers  is  dem- 
onstrated  by  the  women:  Anna  Roberts,  sick  with 
heart  trouble  and  slowly  dying  for  want  of 
warmth  and  nourishment;  Mrs.  Rous,  so  accus- 
tomed to  privation  that  her  present  poverty  seems 
easy  compared  with  the  misery  of  her  whole  life 

Into  this  dismal  environment  comes  Enid,  the 
President  s  daughter,  with  delicacies  and  jams  for 
^nme.  Like  many  women  of  her  station  she  im- 
agines  that  a  little  sympathy  will  bridge  the  chasm 
between  the  classes,  or  as  her  father  says,  "  You 


Strife 


1 


201 


think  with  your  gloved  hands  you  can  cure  the 
troublea  of  the  century." 

Enid  does  ..uc  know  the  life  of  Annie  Roberts' 
class:  that  it  is  all  a  gamble  from  the  "  time  'e  '• 
born  to  the  time  'e  dies." 

Mrs.  Roberts.  Roberts  says  workin'  folk  have  al- 
ways lived  from  hand  to  mouth.  Sixpence  to-day  is 
worth  more  than  a  shillin'  to-morrow,  that's  what  they 
say.  ...  He  says  that  when  a  working  man's  baby  is 
born,  it's  a  toss-up  from  breath  to  breath  whether  it  ever 
draws  another,  and  so  on  al'  'is  life;  an'  when  he  comes 
to  be  old,  it's  the  workhouse  or  the  grave.  He  says  that 
without  a  man  is  very  near,  and  pinches  and  stints  'imself 
and  'is  children  to  save,  there  can  be  neither  surplus  nor 
security.  That's  why  he  wouldn't  have  no  children,  not 
though  I  wanted  them. 

The  strikers'  meeting  is  a  masterly  study  of 
mass  psychology,— the  men  swayed  hither  and 
thither  by  the  different  speakers  and  not  knowing 
whither  to  go.  It  is  the  smooth-tngued  Harness 
who  first  weakens  their  determination  to  hold  out. 

Harness.  Cut  your  demands  to  the  right  pattern,  and 
well  see  you  through;  refuse,  and  don't  expect  r.ic  to 
waste  my  time  coming  down  here  again.  I'm  not  the 
sort  that  speaks  at  random,  as  you  ought  to  know  by 
this  time.  If  you're  the  sound  men  I  take  you  for  — no 
matter  who  advises  you  against  it  — you'll  make  up  your 
minds  to  come  in,  and  trust  to  us  to  get  your  terms. 


^k' 


II 


202 


John  Galsworthy 


Which  is  it  to  be?    Hands  together,  and  victory  — or  — 
the  starvation  you've  got  now  ? 

Then  Old  Thomas  appeals  to  their  religious 
sentiments : 

Thomas.  It  iss  not  London;  it  iss  not  the  Union  — 
it  iss  Nature.  It  iss  no  disgrace  whateffer  to  a  potty  to 
give  in  to  Nature.  For  this  Nature  iss  a  fery  pig  thing; 
it  is  piCPT'  than  what  a  man  is.  There  is  more  years  to 
my  hett  than  to  the  hett  of  anyone  here.  It  is  a  man's 
pisness  to  pe  pure,  honest,  just,  and  merciful.  That's 
what  Chapel  tells  you.  .  «  .  We're  going  the  roat  ♦o 
tamnation.  An'  so  I  say  to  all  of  you.  Tf  yr  -^  against 
Chapel  I  will  not  pe  with  you,  nor  wil'  any  other  Got- 
fearing  man. 

At  last  Roberts  makes  his  plea,  Roberts  who 
has  given  his  all  —  brain,  heart  and  blood  —  aye, 
sacrificed  even  his  wife  to  the  cause.  By  sheer 
force  of  eloquence  and  sincerity  he  stays  his  fickle 
comrades  long  enough  at  least  to  listen  to  him, 
though  they  are  too  broken  to  rise  to  his  great  dig- 
nity and  courage. 

Roberts.  You  don't  want  to  hear  me  then?  You'll 
listen  to  Rous  and  to  that  old  man,  but  not  to  me.  You'll 
listen  .0  Sim  Harness  rf  the  Union  that's  treated  you  so 
fair;  maybe  ynu''.^  listen  to  those  men  from  Londoti.  .  .  . 
You  love  their  feet  on  your  necks,  don't  you?  .  .  .  Am 
I  a  liar,  a  coward  a  traitor?  If  only  I  were,  ye'd  listen 
to  me,  I'm  sure.     Is  there  a  man  of  you  here  who  has 


Strife 


203 


IfM  to  gtin  by  striking?  Is  there  a  mtn  of  you  that  had 
more  to  lose?  Is  there  a  man  among  you  who  has  given 
up  eight  hundred  pounds  since  this  trouble  began? 
C>me,  now,  is  there?  How  much  has  T!  las  given  up 
-*.cn  pounds  or  five  or  what?  You  listened  to  him, 
and  what  had  he  to  say?  "  None  can  pretend,"  he  said, 
"  that  I'm  not  a  believer  in  principle  —  but  when  Nature 
says:  '  No  further,'  'tes  going  against  Nature!"  I 
tell  you  if  a  man  cannot  say  to  Nature :  "  Budge  me  from 
this  if  ye  can  1 " —  his  principles  are  but  his  belly.  "  Oh, 
but,"  Thomas  says,  "  a  man  can  be  pure  and  honest,  just 
and  merciful,  and  take  off  his  hat  to  Nature."  I  tell  you 
Nature's  neither  pure  nor  honest,  just  nor  merciful.  You 
chaps  that  live  over  the  hill,  an'  go  home  dead  beat  in  the 
dark  on  a  snowy  night  —  don't  ye  fight  your  way  every 
inch  of  it?  Do  ye  go  lyin'  down  an'  trustin'  to  the  ten- 
der mercies  of  this  merciful  Natpre?  Try  it  and  you'll 
soon  know  with  what  yeve  got  to  deal.  'Tes  only  by 
that  {he  strikes  a  blow  with  his  cfe  hed  fist)  in  Nature's 
face  that  a  man  can  be  a  man.  "  Give  in,"  says  Thomas ; 
"  go  down  on  your  knees ;  throw  up  your  foolish  fight,  an' 
perhaps,"  he  said,  "  perhaps  your  enemy  will  chuck  you 
down  a  crust."  .  .  .  And  .vhat  did  he  say  about  Chapel  ? 
*'  Chapel's  against  it,"  he  said.  "  She's  against  it." 
Well,  if  Chapel  and  Nature  go  hand  in  hand,  it's  the 
first  I've  ever  heard  of  it.  Sur rendering's  the  work  of 
cowards  and  traitors.  .  .  .  You've  felt  the  pinch  o't  in 
youi  bellies.  You've  forgotten  what  that  fight  'as  been ; 
many  times  I  have  told  you;  I  will  tell  you  now  this 
once  again.  The  fight  o*  the  country's  body  and  blood 
against  a  blood-sucker.    The  fight  of  those  that  spend 


r 


:h 


tt 


!  ■t 


r 


;>n 


i  i'i 


m 


204 


John  Galsworthy 


themselves  with  ev»»ry  blow  they  strike  and  every  breath 
they  draw,  against  a  thing  that  fattens  on  them,  and 
grows  and  grows  by  the  law  of  merciful  Nature.     That 
thing  is  Capital!    A  thing  that  buys  the  sweat  0'  men's 
brows,  and  the  tortures  o'  their  brains,  at  its  own  price. 
Don't   I   know  that?    Wasn't  the  work  o'  my  brains 
bought  for  seven  hundred  pounds,  and  hasn't  one  hun- 
dred thousand  pounds  been  gained  them  by  that  seven 
hundred  without  the  stirring  of  a  finger.     It  is  a  thing 
that  will  take  as  much  and  give  you  as  little  as  it  can. 
That's   Capital!    A   thing   that   will   say— "I'm   very 
sorry  for  you,  poor  fellows  —  you  have  a  cruel  time  of  it, 
I  know,"  but  will  not  give  one  sixpence  of  its  dividends 
to  help  you  have  a  better  time.    That's  Capital!    Tell 
me,  for  all  their  talk,  is  there  one  of  them  that  will  con- 
sent to  another  penny  on  the  Income  Tax  to  help  the 
poor?    That's    Capital!    A    white-faced,    stony-hearted 
monster!    Ye  have  got  it  on  its  knees;  are  ye  to  give  up 
at  the  last  minute  to  sr.e  your  miserable  bodies  pain? 
When  I  went  this  morning  to  those  old  men  from  Lon- 
don, I  looked  into  their  very  'earts.    One  of  them  was 
sitting  there  — Mr.  Scantlebury,  a  mass  of  flesh  nour- 
ished on  us:  sittin'  there  for  all  the  world  like  the  share- 
holders in  this  Company,  that  sit  not  moving  tongue  nor 
finger,  takin'  dividends  —  a  great  dumb  ox  that  can  only 
be  roused  when  its  food  is  threatened.     I  looked  into  his 
eyes  and  I  saw  he  was  af  raid  —  air  aid  for  himself  and 
his  dividends,  afraid  for  his  fees,  afraid  of  the  very  share- 
holders he  stands  for;  and  all  but  one  of  them's  afraid 

like  children  that  get  into  a  wood  at  night,  and  start  at 
every  rustle  of  the  leaves.      I  ask  you,  men  —  give  mc  a 


Strife 


205 


free  hand  to  tell  them :  "  Go  you  back  to  London.  The 
men  have  nothing  for  you !  "  Give  me  that,  and  I  swear 
to  you,  within  a  week  you  shall  have  from  London  all 
you  want.  'Tis  not  for  this  little  moment  of  time  we're 
fighting,  not  for  ourselves,  our  own  little  bodies,  and  their 
wants,  'tis  for  all  those  that  come  after  throughout  all 
time.  Oh!  men  —  for  the  love  o'  them,  don't  roll  up 
another  stone  upon  their  heads,  don't  help  to  blacken  the 
sky,  an'  let  the  bitter  sea  in  over  them.  They're  welcome 
to  the  worst  that  can  happen  to  me,  to  the  worst  that  can 
happen  to  cs  all,  aren't  they  —  aren't  they?  If  we  can 
shake  the  whiit  faced  monster  with  the  bloody  lips,  that 
has  sucked  the  life  out  of  ourselves,  our  wives,  and  chil- 
dren, since  the  world  began.  If  we  have  not  the  hearts 
of  men  to  stand  against  it  breast  to  breast,  and  eye  to  eye, 
and  force  it  backward  till  it  cry  for  mercy,  it  will  go 
on  sucking  life;  and  we  shall  stay  forever  what  we  are, 
less  than  the  very  dogs. 

Consistency  is  the  greatest  crime  of  our  com- 
mercial age.  No  matter  how  intense  the  spirit  or 
how  important  the  man,  the  moment  he  will  not 
allow  himself  to  be  used  or  sell  his  principles,  he 
is  thrown  on  the  dust  heap.  Such  is  the  fate  of 
Anthony,  the  President  of  the  Company,  and  of 
David  Roberts.  To  be  sure  they  represent  oppo- 
site poles  —  poles  antagonistic  to  each  other, 
poles  divided  by  a  terrible  gap  that  can  never  be 
bridged  over.  Yet  they  share  a  common  fate. 
Anthony  is  the  embodiment  of  conservatism,  of 
old  ideas,  of  iron  methods : 


i.i 


i    I'! 


«i !  I 


206 


John  Galsworthy 


Anthony.     I  have  been   Chairman  of  this  Company 
since  its  inception  two  and  thirty  years  ago.  ...  I  have 
had  to  do  with  "  men  "  for  fifty  years;  I've  always  stood 
up  to  them ;  I  have  never  been  beaten  yet.     I  have  fought 
the  men  of  this  Company  four  times,  and  four  times  I 
have   beaten    them.  .  .  .  The    men    have    been    treated 
justly,  they  have  had  fair  wages,  we  have  always  been 
ready  to  listen  to  complaints.     It  has  been  said  that  times 
hav(    changed;  if  they  have,  I  have  not  changed  with 
them.     Neither  will  I.     It  has  been  said  that  masters 
and  men  4re  equal !     Cant!    There  can  onl^       one  mas- 
ter in  a  house!    Where  two  men  meet  the  better  man 
will  rule.     It  has  been  said  that  Capital  and  Labor  have 
the  same  interests.     Cant!    Their  interests  are  as  wide 
asunder  as  the  poles.     It  has  been  said  that  the  Board  is 
only  part  of  a  machine.     Cant!    We  are  the  machine; 
its  brains  and  sinews ;  it  is  for  us  to  lead  and  to  determine 
what  is  to  be  done;  and  to  do  it  without  fear  or  favor. 
Fear  of  the  men!     Fear  of  the  shareholders!    Fear  of 
our  own  shadows!     Before  I  am  like  that,  I  hope  to  die. 
There  is  only  one  way  of  treating  "  men  " —  with  the 
iron  hand.     This  half-and-half  business,  the  half-and-half 
manners  of  this  generation,  has  brought  all  this  upon  us. 
Sentiments  and  softness  and  what  this  young  man,  no 
doubt,  would  call  his  social  policy.    You  can't  eat  cake 
and  have  it!    This  middle-class  sentiment,  or  socialism, 
or  whatever  it  may  be,  is  rotten.     Masters  are  masters, 
men  are  men!    Yield  one  demand,  and  they  will  make 
it  six.    They  are  like  Oliver  Twist,  asking  for  more. 
If  I  were  in  their  place  I  should  be  the  same.    But  I  am 
not  in  their  plac^.  ...  I  have  been  accused  of  being  « 


m 


Strife 


207 


domineering  tyrant,  thinking  only  of  my  pride  —  I  am 
thinking  of  the  future  of  this  country,  threatened  with 
the  black  waters  of  confusion,  threa^^f  with  mob  gov- 
ernment, threatened  with  what  I  c?  ^.  If  by  any 
conduct  of  mine  I  help  to  bring  th..  m  us,  I  shall  be 
ashamed  to  look  my  fellows  in  the  face.  Before  I  put 
this  amendment  to  the  Board,  I  have  one  more  word  to 
say.  If  it  is  carried,  it  means  that  we  shall  fail  in  what 
we  set  ourselves  to  do.  It  means  that  we  shall  fail  in 
the  duty  that  we  owe  to  all  Capital.  It  means  that  we 
shall  fail  in  the  duty  that  we  owe  ourselves. 

We  may  not  like  this  adherence  to  old,  reaction- 
ary notions,  and  yet  there  is  something  admirable 
in  the  courage  and  consistency  of  this  man;  nor 
is  he  half  as  dangerous  to  the  interests  of  the  op- 
pressed as  our  sentimental  and  soft  reformers  who 
rob  with  nine  fingers,  and  give  libraries  with  the 
tenth;  who  grind  human  beln.-s  and  spend  millions 
of  dollars  in  social  research  work.  Anthony  is  a 
worthy  foe;  to  firrht  such  a  foe,  one  must  learn  to 
meet  him  in  open  battle. 

David  Roberts  has  all  the  mental  and  moral  at- 
tributes of  his  adversary,  coupled  with  the  spirit 
of  revolt  and  the  inspiration  of  modern  ideas. 
He,  too,  is  consistent:  he  wants  nothing  for  his 
class  short  of  complete  victory. 

It  is  inevitable  that  compromise  and  petty  in- 
terest should  triumph  until  the  masses  become  im- 
bued with  the  spirit  of  a  David  Roberts.     Will 


ii>!. 


0 


III 


208 


I  ill ' '' 


John  Galsworthy 


they  ever?  Prophecy  is  not  the  vocation  of  the 
dramatist,  yet  the  moral  lesson  is  evident.  One 
cannot  help  realizing  that  the  workingmen  will 
have  to  use  methods  hitherto  unfamiliar  to  them; 
that  they  will  have  to  discard  the  elements  in  their 
midst  that  are  forever  seeking  to  reconcile  the  ir- 
reconcilable—  Capital  and  Labor.  They  will 
have  to  learn  that  men  like  David  Roberts  are  the 
very  forces  that  have  revolutionized  the  world  and 
thus  pavqd  the  way  for  emancipation  -»ut  of  the 
clutches  of  the  "  white-faced  monster  with  bloody 
lips,"  toward  a  brighter  horizon,  a  freer  life,  and  a 
truer  recognition  of  human  values. 


hiii: 


JUSTICE 

No  subject  of  equal  social  import  has  received 
such  thoughtful  consideration  in  recent  years  as 
the  question  of  Crime  and  Punishment.  A  num- 
ber of  books  by  able  writers,  both  in  Europe  and 
this  country  —  preeminently  among  them  *'  Prison 
Memoirs  of  an  Anarchist,"  by  Alexander  Berk- 
man  —  discuss  this  topic  from  the  historic,  psycho- 
logic, and  social  standpoint,  the  consensus  of  opin- 
ion being  that  present  penal  institutions  and  our 
methods  of  coping  with  crime  have  in  every  re- 
spect proved  inadequate  as  well  as  wasteful. 
This  new  attitude  toward  one  of  the  gravest  so- 


Justice 


209 


cial  wrongs  has  now  also  found  dramatic  interpre- 
tation in  Galsworthy's  "  Justice." 

The  play  opens  in  the  office  of  James  How  6f 
Sons,  solicitors.     The  senior  clerk,  Robert  Coke- 
son,  discovers  that  a  check  he  had  issued  for  nine 
pounds  has  been  forged  to  ninety.     By  elimina- 
tion,  suspicion   falls   upon   William  Falder,  the 
junior  office  clerk.     The  latter  is  in  love  with  a 
married  woman,  the  abused  and  ill-treated  wife  of 
a  brutal  drunkard.     Pressed  by  his  employer,  a 
severe  yet  not  unkindly  man,  F alder  confesses  the 
forgery,  pleading  the  dire  necessity  of  his  swec' 
heart,  Ruth  Honeywill,  with  whom  he  had  planned 
to  escape  to  save  her  from  the  unbearable  bru- 
tality of  her  husband. 

Falder.  Oh!  sir,  look  over  it!  I'll  pay  the  money 
back  —  I  will,  I  promise. 

Notwithstanding  the  entreaties  of  young  Walter 
How,  who  holds  modem  ideas,  his  father,  a 
moral  and  law-respecting  citizen,  turns  Falder 
over  to  the  police. 

The  second  act,  in  the  court  room,  shows  Justice 
in  the  very  process  of  manufacture.  The  scene 
equals  in  dramatic  power  and  psychologic  verity 
the  great  court  scene  in  "  Resurrection."  Young 
Falder,  a  nervous  and  rather  weakly  youth  of 
twenty-three,  stands  before  the  bar.     Ruth,  his 


!1 


3 
^'1 


ni 


210 


John  Galsworthy 


fii 


if. 


!|i 


faithful  sweetheart,  full  of  love  and  devotion, 
burns  with  anxiety  to  save  the  young  man,  whose 
affection  for  her  has  brought  about  his  present  pre- 
dicament. Falder  is  defended  by  Lawyer  Frame, 
whose  speech  to  the  jury  is  a  masterpiece  of  social 
philosophy.  He  does  not  attempt  to  dispute  the 
mere  fact  that  his  client  had  altered  the  check;  and 
though  he  pleads  temporary  aberration  in  his  de- 
fense, the  argument  is  based  on  a  social  conscious- 
ness as  fundamental  and  all-embracing  as  the  roots 
of  our  soci*al  ills —  "  the  background  of  life,  that 
palpitating  life  which  always  lies  behind  the  com- 
mission of  a  crime."  He  shows  Falder  to  have 
faced  the  alternative  of  seeing  the  beloved  woman 
murdered  by  her  brutal  husband,  whom  she  can- 
not divorce,  or  of  taking  the  law  into  his  own 
hands.  He  pleads  with  the  jury  not  to  turn  the 
weak  young  man  into  a  criminal  by  condemning 
him  to  prison. 

Frame.  Men  like  the  prisoner  are  destroyed  daily 
under  our  law  for  want  of  that  human  insight  which  sees 
them  as  they  are,  patients,  and  not  criminals.  .  .  .  Justice 
is  a  machine  that,  when  someone  has  given  it  a  starting 
push,  rolls  on  of  itself.  ...  Is  this  young  man  to  be 
ground  to  pieces  under  this  machine  for  an  act  which,  at 
the  worst,  was  one  of  weakness  ?  Is  he  to  become  a  mem- 
ber of  the  luckless  crews  that  man  those  dark,  ill-starred 
ships  called  prisons?  ...  I  urge  you,  gentlemen,  do  not 
ruin  this  young  man.     For  as  a  result  of  those  four  min- 


Justice 


211 


utcs,  ruin,  utter  and  irretrievable,  stares  him  in  the  face. 
.  .  .  The  rolling  of  the  chariot  wheels  of  Justice  over 
this  boy  began  .vhen  ft  was  decided  to  prosecute  him. 

But  the  chariot  of  Justice  rolls  mercilessly  on, 
for  —  as  the  learned  Judge  says  — 

"  Your  counsel  has  made  an  attempt  to  trace  your  of- 
fense back  to  what  he  seems  to  suggest  is  a  defect  in  the 
marriage  law;  he  has  made  an  attempt  also  to  show  that 
to  punish  you  with  further  imprisonment  would  be  un- 
just. I  do  not  follow  him  in  these  flights.  The  Law  is 
what  it  is  —  a  majestic  edifice,  sheltering  all  of  us,  each 
stone  of  which  rests  on  another.  I  am  concerned  only 
with  its  administration.  The  crime  you  have  committed 
is  a  very  serious  one.  I  cannot  feel  it  in  accordance  with 
my  duty  to  Society  to  exercise  the  powers  I  have  in  your 
favor.    You  will  go  to  penal  servitude  for  three  years." 

In  prison  the  young,  inexperienced  convict  soon 
finds  himself  the  victim  of  the  terrible  "  system." 
The  authorities  admit  that  young  Falder  is  men- 
tally and  physically  *'  in  bad  shape,"  but  nothing 
can  be  done  in  the  matter:  many  others  are  in  a 
similar  position,  and  "  the  quarters  are  inade- 
quate." 

The  third  scene  of  the  third  act  is  heart-gripping 
in  its  silent  force.  Tbe  whole  scene  is  a  panto- 
mime, taking  place  in  Folder's  prison  cell. 

"  In  fast-falling  daylight,  Falder,  in  his  stock- 
ings, is  seen  standing  motionless,  with  his  head  in- 


■1  i" 


^\i 


I 


4,m 


m 


I  \  ■  'I 

I.  '      !i 


i  '■] 


212 


/o/in  Galsworthy 


dined  towards  the  door,  listening.     He  moves  a 
little  closer  to  the  door,  his  stockinged  feet  making 
no  noise.     He  stops  at  the  door.     He  is  trying 
harder  and  harder  to  hear  something,  atiy  little 
thing  that  is  going  on  outside.     He  springs  sud- 
denly upright — as  if  at  a  sound  —  and  remains 
perfectly  motionless.     Then,  with  a  heavy  sigh, 
he  moves  to  his  work,  and  stands  looking  at  it, 
with  his  head  down ;  he  does  a  stitch  or  two,  hav- 
ing  the  air  of  a  man  so  lost  in  sadness  that  each 
stitch  is,  as  it  were,  a  coming  to  life.     Then,  turn- 
ing abruptly,  he  begins  pacing  his  cell,  moving  his 
head,  like  an  animal  racing  its  cage.     He  stops 
again  at  the  door,  listens,  and,  placing  the  palms 
of  his  hands  against  it,  with  his  fingers  spread  out, 
leans   his   forehead   against   the   iron.     Turning 
from  it,  presently,  he  moves  slowly  back  towards 
the  window,  tracing  his  way  with  his  finger  along 
the  top  line  of  the  distemper  that  runs  round 
the  wall.     He  stops  under  the  window,  and,  pick- 
ing up  the  lid  of  one  of  the  tins,  peers  into  it.     It 
has  grown  very  nearly  dark.     Suddenly  the  lid 
falls  out  of  his  hand  with  a  clatter  —  the  only 
sound  that  has  broken  the  silence  —  and  he  stands 
staring  intently  at  the  wall  where  the  stuff  of  the 
shirt  is  hanging  rather  white  in  the  darkness  —  he 
seems  to  be  seeing  somebody  or  something  there. 
There  is  a  sharp  tap  and  click;  the  cell  light  be- 
hind the  glass  screen  has  been  turned  up.     The 


Justice 


213 


cell  is  brightly  lighted.  Falder  is  seen  gasping 
for  breath. 

'*  A  sound  from  far  away,  as  of  distant,  dull 
beating  on  thick  metal,  is  suddenly  audible.  Falder 
shrinks  back,  not  able  to  bear  this  sudden  clamor. 
But  the  sounds  grows,  as  though  some  great  tum- 
bril were  rolling  towards  the  cell.  And  gradu- 
ally it  seems  to  hypnotize  him.  He  begins  creep- 
ing inch  by  inch  nearer  to  the  door.  The  banging 
sound,  traveling  from  cell  to  cell,  draws  closer 
and  closer;  Falder' s  hands  are  seen  moving  as  if 
his  spirit  had  already  joined  in  this  beating;  and 
the  sound  swells  until  it  seems  to  have  entered  the 
very  cell.     He  suddenly  raises  his  clenched  fists. 

"  Panting  violently,  he  flings  himself  at  his  door, 
and  beats  on  it." 

Falder  leaves  the  prison,  a  broken  ticket-of- 
leave  man,  the  stamp  of  the  convict  upon  his  brow, 
the  iron  of  misery  in  his  soul. 

Falder.  I  seen  to  be  struggling  against  a  thing  that's 
all  round  me.  I  can't  explain  it:  it's  as  if  I  was  in  a 
net;  as  fast  as  I  cut  it  here,  it  grows  up  there.  I  didn't 
act  as  I  ought  to  have,  about  references;  but  what  are 
you  to  do?  You  must  have  them.  And  that  made  me 
afraid,  and  I  left.  In  fact,  I'm  —  I'm  afraid  all  the  time 
now. 

Thanks  to  Ruth's  pleading,  the  firm  of  James 
How  ^  Son  is  willing  to  take  Falder  back  in  their 


214 


John  Galsworthy 


employ,  on  condition  that  he  give  up  Ruth.     Fal- 
der  resents  this : 

Falder.  I  couldn't  give  her  up.  I  couldn't!  Oh, 
sir!  I'm  all  she's  got  to  look  to.  And  I'm  sure  she's  all 
I've  got. 

It  is  then  that  Falder  learns  the  awful  news  that 
the  woman  he  loves  had  been  driven  by  the  chariot 
wheel  of  Justice  to  sell  herself. 

Ruth.  I  X\\tA  making  skirts  .  .  .  cheap  thingi:.  It 
was  the  best  I  could  get,  but  I  never  made  more  than  ten 
shillings  a  week,  buying  my  own  cotton  and  working  all 
day;  I  hardly  ever  got  to  bed  till  past  twelve.  I  kept  at 
it  for  nine  months.  ...  It  was  starvation  for  the  chil- 
dren. .  .  .  And  then  ...  my  employer  happened  —  he's 
happened  ever  since. 

At  this  terrible  psychologic  moment  the  police 
appear  to  drag  Falder  back  to  prison  for  failing 
to  report  to  the  authorities  as  ticket-of-leave  man. 

Completely  overcome  by  the  inexorability  of  his 
fate,  Falder  throws  himself  down  the  stairs,  break- 
ing his  neck. 

The  socio-revolutionary  significance  of  "  Jus- 
tice "  consists  not  only  in  the  portrayal  of  the  in- 
human system  which  grinds  the  Falders  and 
Honeywills,  but  even  more  so  in  the  utter  helpless- 
ness of  society  as  expressed  in  the  words  of  the 
Senior   Clerk,   Cokeson,   "  No  one'll  touch   him 


The  Pigeon 


215 


nowl     Never    again!     He's    safe    with    gentle 
Jesus!" 


THE  PIGEON 

John  Galsworthy  calls  this  play  a  fan^^^sy. 
To  me  it  seems  cruelly  real :  it  demonstrates  chat 
the  best  human  material  is  crushed  in  the  fatal 
•mechanism  of  our  life.  '*  The  Pigeon  "  also  dis- 
closes to  us  the  inadequacy  of  charity,  individual 
and  organized,  to  cope  with  poverty,  as  well  as  the 
absurdity  of  reformers  and  experimenters  who  at- 
tempt to  patch  up  effects  while  they  ignore  the 
causes. 

Christopher  IVellwyn,  an  artist,  a  man  deeply 
in  sympathy  with  all  human  sorrow  and  failings, 
generously  shares  his  meager  means  with  everyone 
who  applies  to  him  for  help. 

His  daughter  Ann  is  of  a  more  practical  turn 
of  mind.  She  cannot  understand  that  giving  is 
as  natural  and  necessary  to  her  father  as  light  and 
air;  indeed,  the  greatest  joy  in  life. 

Perhaps  Ann  is  actuated  by  anxiety  for  her 
father  who  is  so  utterly  "  hopeles;?  "  that  he  would 
give  away  I  is  "  last  pair  of  trousers."  From  her 
point  of  view  "  people  who  beg  are  rotters  " :  de- 
cent folk  would  not  stoop  to  begging.  But  Chris- 
topher fVellwyn's  heart  is  too  full  of  humanity  to 
admit  of  such  a  straight-laced  attitude.     "  We're 


Iffl^ifli 


L-i 


I 


f? 


2l6 


John  Galsworthy 


not  all  the  same.  .  .  .  One  likes  to  be  friendly. 
What's  the  use  of  being  alive  if  one  isn't?  " 

Unfortunately  most  people  are  not  alive  to  the 
tragedies  around  them.  They  are  often  unthinking 
mechanisms,  mere  tabulating  machines,  like  /tlfred 
Calxvay,  the  Professor,  who  believes  that  "  we're 
to  give  the  State  all  we  can  spare,  to  make  the 
undeserving  deserving."  Or  as  Sir  Hoxion,  the 
Justice  of  the  Peace,  who  insists  that  "  we  ought  to 
support  private  organizations  for  helping  the  de- 
serving, and  damn  the  undeserving."  P^inally 
there  is  the  Canon  who  religiously  seeks  the  mid- 
dle road  and  "  wants  a  little  of  both." 

When  Jnn  concludes  that  her  father  is  the  de- 
spair of  all  social  reformers,  she  is  but  expressing 
a  great  truism ;  namely,  that  social  reform  is  a  cold 
and  bloodless  thing  that  c^r  find  no  place  in  the 
glowing  humanity  of  Christopher  If^ellwyn. 

It  is  Christmas  Eve,  the  birth  of  Him  who  came 
to  proclaim  "  Peace  on  earth,  good  will  to  all." 
Christopher  fVellwyn  is  about  to  retire  when  he  is 
disturbed  by  a  knock  on  the  door. 

The  snow-covered,  frost-pinched  figure  of 
Guinevere  Megan  appears.  She  Is  a  flower-seller 
to  whom  Wellwyn  had  once  given  his  card  that 
she  might  find  him  in  case  of  need.  She  comes  to 
him  when  the  rest  of  the  world  has  passed  her  by, 


The  Pigeon  217 

forlorn  and  almost  as  dead  as  her  violets  which  no 
ore  cares  to  buy. 

At  sight  of  her  misery  H^elluiyn  forgets  his 
daughter's  practical  admonition  and  his  promise 
to  her  not  to  be  **  a  fool."  He  treats  the  flower- 
seller  tenderly,  makes  her  warm  and  comfortable. 
He  has  barely  time  to  show  Guinevere  into  his 
model's  room,  when  another  knock  is  heard. 
This  time  it  is  Ferrand,  '*  an  alien,"  a  globe  trot- 
ter without  means, —  a  tramp  whom  ff^elltvyn  had 
once  met  in  the  Champs-Elysees.  Without  food 
for  days  and  unable  to  endure  the  cold,  Ferrand 
too  comes  to  the  artist. 

Ferrand.  If  I  had  not  found  you,  Monsieur  —  I 
would  have  been  a  little  hole  in  the  river  to-night  —  I 
was  so  discouraged.  .  .  .  And  to  think  that  in  a  few  min- 
utes He  will  be  born!  .  .  .  The  world  would  reproach 
you  for  your  goodness  to  me.  Monsieur,  if  He  himself 
were  on  earth  now,  there  would  be  a  little  heap  of  gen- 
tlemen writing  to  the  journals  every  day  to  call  him 
sloppee  sentimentalist!  And  what  is  veree  funny,  these 
gentlemen  they  would  all  be  most  strong  Christians. 
But  that  will  not  trouble  you.  Monsieur;  I  saw  well 
from  the  first  that  you  are  no  Christian.  You  have  so 
kind  a  face. 

Ferrand  has  deeper  insight  into  the  character  of 
Christopher  JVellwyn  than  his  daughter.  He 
knows  that  the  artist  would  not  judge  nor  could  he 


I:' 


if: 


Ml 


fl^ 


3^  ; 

i 


2l8 


John  Galsworthy 


refuse  one  whom  misery  stares  in  the  face.  Even 
the  third  visitor  of  fVellwyn,  the  old  cabman  Tim- 
son,  with  more  whisky  than  bread  in  his  stomach, 
receives  the  same  generous  reception  as  the  other 
two. 

The  next  day  Ann  calls  a  council  of  war.  The 
learned  Professor,  Alfred  Calway;  the  wise  judge, 
Sir  Thomas  Hoxton;  and  the  professional  Chris- 
tian, Edward  Bertley  —  the  Canon  —  are  sum- 
moned to  decide  the  fate  of  the  three  outcasts. 

There  are  few  scenes  in  dramatic  literature  so 
rich  in  satire,  so  deep  in  the  power  of  analysis  as 
the  one  in  which  these  eminent  gentlemen  discuss 
human  destiny.  Canon  Bertley  is  emphatic  that  it 
is  necessary  to  '*  remove  the  temptation  and  re- 
form the  husband  of  the  flower-seller." 

Bertley.     Now,  what  is  to  be  done? 

Mrs.  Megan.  I  could  get  an  unfurnished  room,  if  I'd 
the  money  to  furnish  it. 

Bertley.  Never  mind  the  money.  What  I  want  to 
find  in  you  is  repentance. 

Those  who  are  engaged  in  saving  souls  cannot 
be  interested  in  such  trifles  rs  money  matters,  nor 
to  understand  the  simple  truth  that  if  the  Megans 
did  not  have  to  bother  with  making  a  "  livin'," 
repentance  would  take  care  of  itself. 

The  other  two  gentlemen  are  more  worldly, 
since   law   and  science   cannot  experiment  with 


I  m 


The  Pigeon  219 

siH?.  c'usive  things  as  the  soul.  Professor  Calway 
cpines  th.it  7  •  nson  is  a  congenital  case,  to  be  put 
uidr  obscr  ation,  while  Jud^e  Hoxton  decides 
thai  lic  iii^st  be  sent  to  prison. 

Calway.  Is  it,  do  you  think,  chronic  unemployment 
with  a  vagrant  tendency?  Or  would  it  be  nearer  the 
mark  to  say:  Vagrancy—  Dipsomaniac?  ...  By  the 
look  of  his  face,  as  far  as  one  can  see  it,  I  should  say 
there  w?s  a  leaning  towards  mania.  I  know  the  treat- 
ment. 

^  Hoxton.  Hundreds  of  these  fellows  before  me  in  my 
time.     The  only  thing  is  a  sharp  lesson! 

Calway.  I  disagree.  I've  seen  the  man;  what  he  re- 
quires is  steady  control,  and  the  Dobbins  treatment. 

Hoxton.  Not  a  bit  of  it !  He  wants  one  for  his  knob ! 
Bracing  him  up!     It's  the  only  thing! 

^  Calway.  You're  moving  backwards,  Sir  Thomas. 
I've  told  you  before,  convinced  reactionaryism,  in  these 
days  —  The  merest  sense  of  continuity  —  a  simple  instinct 
for  order  — 

Hoxton.  The  only  way  to  get  order,  sir,  is  to  bring 
the  disorderly  up  with  a  round  turn.  You  people  with- 
out practical  experience  — 

Calway.  The  question  is  a  much  wider  one,  Sir 
Thomas. 

Hoxton.  No,  sir,  I  repeat,  if  the  country  once  com- 
mits itself  to  your  views  of  reform,  it's  as  good  as  doomed. 

Calway.  I  seem  to  have  heard  that  before.  Sir 
Thomas.  And  let  me  say  at  once  that  your  hitty-missy 
cart-load  of  bricks  regime  — 


ill 


220 


John  Galsworthy 


I 


If:  t 


Si.il 


'% 


I 


Hoxton.  Is  a  deuced  sight  better,  sir,  than  your  grand- 
motherly methods.  What  the  old  fellow  wants  is  a 
shock!  With  all  this  socialistic  molly-coddling,  you're 
losing  sight  of  the  individual. 

Calway.  You,  sir,  with  your  "devil  take  the  hind- 
most," have  never  seen  him.  ' 

The  farce  ends  by  each  one  insisting  on  the  su- 
periority of  his  own  pet  theory,  while  misery  con- 
tinues to  stalk  white-faced  through  the  streets. 

Three  months  later  Jnn  determines  to  rescue 
her  father  from  his  disreputable  proclivities  by 
removing  with  him  to  a  part  of  the  city  where  their 
address  will  remain  unknown  to  his  beggar  friends 
and  acquaintances. 

While  their  belongings  are  being  removed, 
Canon  Bertley  relates  the  trouble  he  had  with 
Mrs.  Megan. 

Bertley.  I  consulted  with  Calway  and  he  advised  me 
to  try  a  certain  institution.  We  got  her  safely  in  — 
excellent  place;  but,  d'you  know,  she  broke  out  three 
weeks  ago.  And  since  — I've  heard  —  hopeless,  I'm 
afraid  —  quite!  .  .  .  I'm  sometimes  tempted  to  believe 
there's  nothing  for  some  of  these  poor  folk  but  to  pray 
for  death. 

Wellwyn.  The  Professor  said  he  ,elt  there  was  noth- 
ing for  some  of  these  poor  devils  but  a  lethal  chamber. 

What  is  science  for  if  not  to  advise  a  lethal 
chamber?     It's  the  easiest  way  to  dispose  of  "  the 


The  Pigeon 


221 


unfit "  and  to  supply  learned  professors  with  the 
means  of  comfortable  livelihood. 

Yet  there  is  Ferrand,  the  vagabond,  the  social 
outcast  who  has  never  ser  he  inside  of  a  uni- 
versity, propounding  a  philosophy  which  very  few 
professors  even  dream  of: 

Ferrand.  While  I  was  on  the  road  this  time  I  fell  ill 
of  a  fever.  It  seemed  to  me  in  my  illness  that  I  saw  the 
truth  —  how  I  was  wasting  in  this  world  —  I  would 
never  be  good  for  anyone  —  nor  anyone  for  me  —  all 
would  go  by,  and  I  never  of  it  —  fame,  and  fortune,  and 
peace,  even  the  necessities  of  life,  ever  mocking  me.  And 
I  saw,  so  plain,  that  I  should  be  vagabond  all  my  days, 
and  my  days  short ;  I  dying  in  the  end  the  death  of  a  dog. 
I  saw  it  all  in  my  fever  — clear  as  that  flame  — there 
was  nothing  for  us  others,  but  the  herb  of  death.  And 
wished  to  die.  I  told  no  one  of  my  fever.  I  lay  out 
ground  —  it  was  verree  cold.  But  they  would 
n  .  let  me  die  on  the  roads  of  their  parishes —  They 
took  me  to  an  Institution.  I  looked  in  their  eyes  while 
I  lay  there,  and  I  saw  more  clear  than  the  blue  heaven 
that  they  thought  it  best  that  I  should  die,  although  they 
would  not  let  me.  Then  naturally  my  spirit  rose,  and  I 
said :  "  So  much  the  worse  for  you.  I  will  live  a  little 
more."  One  is  made  like  that!  Life  is  sweet.  That 
little  girl  you  had  here,  Monsieur — in  her  too  there  is 
something  of  wild  savage.  She  must  have  joy  of  life. 
I  have  seen  her  since  I  came  back.  She  has  embraced 
the  life  of  joy.  It  is  not  quite  the  same  thing.  She  is 
lost.  Monsieur,  as  a  stone  that  sinks  in  water.    I  can 


222 


John  Gahivorttiy 


sec,  if  she  r  inot.  ...  For  the  great  part  of  mankind, 
to  see  anything  — is  fatal.  No,  Monsieur.  To  be  so 
near  tc  deaih  has  done  me  good ;  I  shall  not  lack  courage 
any  more  till  the  wind  blows  on  my  grave.  Since  I  saw 
you,  Monsieur,  I  have  been  in  three  Institutions.  They 
are  palaces.  .  .  .  One  little  thing  they  lack  —  those  pal- 
aces. It  is  understanding  of  the  'uman  heart.  In  them 
tame  birds  pluck  wild  birds  naked.  Ah!  Monsieur,  I 
am  loafer,  waster  —  what  you  like  —  for  all  that,  pov- 
erty is  my  only  crime.  If  I  v/ere  rich,  should  I  not  be 
simply  verree  original,  'ighly  respected,  with  soul  above 
commerce,  traveling  to  see  the  world  ?  And  that  young 
girl,  would  she  not  be  "that  c.iarming  ladee,"  "  veree 
chic,  you  know!"  And  the  old  Tims  — good  old-fash- 
ioned  gentleman  —  drinking  hi?  liquor  well.     Eh!  bien 

—  what  are  we  now?  Dark  beasts,  despised  by  all. 
That  is  life,  Monsieur.  Monsieur,  it  is  just  that.  You 
understand.     When  we  are  with  you  we  feel  something 

—  here—  If  I  had  one  prayer  to  make,  it  would  be, 
"  Good  God,  give  me  to  understand !  "  Those  sirs,  with 
their  theories,  they  can  clean  our  skins  and  chain  our 
'abits  —  that  soothes  for  them  the  aesthetic  sense;  it  gives 
them  too  their  good  little  importance.  But  our  spirits 
they  cannot  touch,  for  they  nevare  understand.  Without 
that.  Monsieur,  all  is  dry  as  a  parched  skin  of  orange. 
Monsieur,  of  their  industry  I  say  nothing.  They  do  a 
good  work  while  they  attend  with  their  theories  to  the 
sick  and  the  tame  old,  and  the  good  unfortunate  deserv- 
ing. Above  all  to  the  little  children.  But,  Monsieur, 
when  all  is  done,  there  are  always  us  hopeless  ones. 
What  can  they  do  with  me.  Monsieur,  with  that  girl,  or 


The  Pigeon 


223 


with  that  old  man  ?    Ah !  Monsieur,  we  too,  'ave  our 
qualities,  we  others  —  it  wants  you  courage  to  undertake 
a  career  like  mine,  or  like  tha*  young  girl's.     We  wild 
ones  — we  know  a  thousand  times  more  of  life  than  ever 
\;ill  those  sirs.     They  waste  their  time  trying  to  make 
rooks  white.     Be  kind  to  us  if  you  will,  or  let  us  alone 
like   Mees  Ann,   but   do   not   try  to  change  our  skins. 
Leave  us  to  live,  or  leave  us  to  die  when  we  like  in  the 
free  air.     If  you  do  not  wish  of  us,  you  have  but  to  shut 
your  pockets  and  your  doors  — we  shall  die  the  faster. 
...  If  you  cannot,  how  is  it  our  fault?     The  harm  we 
do  to  others  — is  it  so  much?     If  I  am  criminal,  dan- 
gerous—shut   me    up!     I    would    not    pity    myself  — 
nevare.     But  we  in  whom  som'^thing  moves  — like  that 
flame.  Monsieur,  that  cannot  keep  still  — -e  others  — 
we  are  not  many  —  that  must  hav  motion  i:!  our  lives, 
do  not  let  them  make  us  prisoners,  with  their  theories, 
because  we  are  not  like  them  — it  is  life  itself  they  would 
enclose!  .  .  .  The  good  God  made  me  so  that  I  would 
rather  walk  a  whole  month  of  niglits,  hungry,  with  the 
stars,  than  sit  one  single  day  making  round  business  on 
an  office  stool!     It  is  not  to  my  advantage.     I  cannot 
help  it  that  I  am  a  vagabond.     What  would  you  have? 
It  is  stronger  than  me.     Monsieur,  I  say  to  you  things 
I  have  never  said.     Monsieur!     Are  you  really  English? 
The  English  are  so  civilized. 

Truly  the  English  are  highly  "  civilized  ";  else 
It  would  be  impossible  to  explain  why  of  all  the  na- 
tions on  earth,  the  Anglo-Saxons  should  be  the 
only  ones  to  punish  attempts  at  suicide. 


224 


John  Galsworthy 


'i 


1 


Society  makes  no  provision  whatever  for  the 
Timsons,  the  Ferrands  and  Mrs.  Megans.  It  has 
closed  the  dour  in  their  face,  denying  them  a  seat 
at  the  table  of  life.  Yet  when  Guinevere  Megan 
attempts  to  drown  herself,  a  benevolent  constable 
drags  her  out  and  a  Christian  Judge  sends  her  to 
the  workhouse. 

Constable.  Well,  sir,  we  ':an't  get  over  the  facts,  can 
we?  .  .  .  You  know  what  soocide  amounts  to  —  it's  an 
awkward  job. 

IVellwyti.  But  look  here,  Constable,  as  a  reasonable 
man  —  This  poor  wretched  little  girl  — you  know  what 
that  life  means  better  than  anyone!  Why!  It's  to  her 
credit  to  try  and  jump  out  of  it! 

Constable.  Can't  neglect  me  duty,  sir;  that's  impos- 
sible. 

Wellwyn.     Of  all   the  d d  topsy-turvy  — !     Not 

a  soul  in  the  world  wants  her  alive  —  and  now  she  is  to 
be  prosecuted  for  trying  to  go  where  everyone  wishes  her. 

Is  it  necessary  to  dwell  on  the  revolutionary  sig- 
nificance of  this  cruel  reality?  It  is  so  all-embrac- 
ing in  its  sweep,  so  penetrating  of  the  topsy-tur- 
viness  of  our  civilization,  with  all  its  cant  and  arti- 
fice, so  powerful  in  its  condemnation  of  our  cheap 
theories  and  cold  institutionalism  which  freezes  the 
soul  and  destroys  the  best  and  finest  in  our  being. 
The  Wellwyns,  Ferrands,  and  Megans  are  the  stuff 
out  of  which  a  real  humanity  might  be  fashioned. 
They  feel  the  needs  of  their  fellows,  and  what- 


The  Pigeon 


225 


ever  is  in  their  power  to  give,  they  give  as  nature 
does,  unreservedly.  But  the  Hoxtons,  Calways 
and  Bertleys  have  turned  the  world  into  a  dismal 
prison  and  mankind  into  monotonous,  gray,  dull 
shadows. 

The  professors,  judges,  and  preachers  cannot 
meet  the  situation.  Neither  can  Wellwyn,  to  be 
sure.  And  yet  his  very  understanding  of  the  dif- 
ferentiation of  human  nature,  and  his  sympathy 
with  the  inevitable  reaction  of  conditions  upon  it, 
bring  the  Wellwyns  much  closer  to  the  solution 
of  our  evils  than  all  the  Hoxtons,  Calways  ind 
Bertleys  put  together.  This  deep  conception  of 
social  factors  is  in  itself  perhaps  the  most  signifi- 
cant lesson  taught  in  "  The  Pigeon." 


,1 


^VPVB^^Sm 


STANLEY  HOUGHTON 


1^1 


lifni! 


i! 


HINDLE  WAKES 

IN  Stanley  Houghton,  who  died  last  year,  the 
drama  lost  a  talented  and  brave  artist. 
Brave,  because  he  had  the  courage  to  touch 
one  of  the  most  sensitive  spots  of  Puritanism 
—  woman's  virtue.  Whatever  else  one  may  criti- 
cise or  attack,  the  sacredness  of  virtue  must  re- 
main untouched.  It  is  the  last  fetich  which  even 
so-called  liberal-minded  people  refuse  to  destroy. 
To  be  sure,  the  attitude  towards  this  holy  of 
holies  has  of  late  years  undergone  a  considerable 
change.  It  is  beginning  to  be  felt  in  ever-growing 
circles  that  love  is  its  own  justification,  requiring 
no  sanction  of  either  religion  or  law.  The  revolu- 
tionary idea,  however,  that  woman  may,  even  as 
man,  follow  the  urge  of  her  nature,  has  never  be- 
fore been  so  sincerely  and  radically  expressed. 

The  message  of  *'  Hindle  Wakes  "  is  therefore 
of  inestimable  value,  inasmuch  as  it  dispels  the  fog 
of  the  silly  sentimentalism  and  disgusting  bombast 
that  declares  woman  a  thing  apart  from  nature  — 
one  who  neither  does  nor  must  crave  the  joys  of 
life  permissible  to  man. 

Hindle  is  a  small  weaving  town,  symbolically 

aa6 


Hindle  IVakes 


227 


representing  the  wakefulness  of  every  small  com- 
munity to  the  shortcomings  of  its  neighbors. 

Christopher  Hawthorne  and  Nathaniel  Jeff  cote 
had  begun  life  together  as  lads  in  the  cotton  mill. 
But  while  Christopher  was  always  a  timid  and 
shrinking  boy,  Nathaniel  was  aggressive  a.nd  am- 
bitious. When  the  play  opens,  Christopher, 
though  an  old  man,  I-?  still  a  poor  weaver;  Na- 
thaniel, on  the  contrary,  has  reached  the  top  of  fi- 
nancial  and  social  sucess.  He  is  the  owner  of  the 
biggest  mill;  is  wealthy,  influential,  and  withal  a 
man  of  power.  For  Nathaniel  Jeffcote  always 
loved  power  and  social  approval.  Speaking  of 
the  motor  he  bought  for  his  only  son  Alan,  he  tells 
his  wife: 

Jeffcote.  Why  did  I  buy  a  motor-car?  Not  because 
I  wanted  to  go  motoring.  I  hate  it.  I  bought  it  so  that 
people  could  see  Alan  driving  about  in  it,  and  say, 
"  There's  Jeffcote 's  lad  in  his  new  car.  It  cost  five  bun- 
dled quid." 


However,  Nathaniel  is  a  *'  square  man,"  and 
when  facing  an  emergency,  not  chary  with  jus- 
tice and  always  quick  to  decide  in  its  favor. 

The  Jef cotes  center  all  their  hopes  on  Alan, 
their  only  child,  who  is  to  inherit  their  fortune  and 
business.  Alan  is  engaged  to  Beatrice,  the  lovely, 
sweet  daughter  of  Sir  Timothy  Farrar,  and  all  is 
joyous  at  the  Jeffcotes'. 


I'll 


228 


Stanley  Houghton 


Down  in  the  valley  of  Hindle  live  the  Haw- 
themes,  humble  and  content,  as  behooves  God- 
fearing workers.  They  too  have  ambitions  in  be- 
half of  their  daughter  Fanny,  strong,  willful  and 
self-reliant, —  qualities  molded  in  the  hard  grind 
of  Jeffcote's  mill,  where  she  had  begun  work  as  a 
tot. 

During  the  *'  bank  holiday  "  Fanny  with  her 
chum  Mary  goes  to  a  neighboring  town  for  an 
outing.  There  they  meet  two  young  men,  /ilan 
Jeffcote  and  his  friend.  Fanny  departs  with  J  Ian, 
and  they  spend  a  glorious  time  together.  On  the 
way  home  Ilary  is  drowned.  As  a  result  of  the 
accident  the  Hawthornes  learn  t'^at  their  daughter 
had  not  spent  her  vacation  with  Mary.  When 
Fanny  returns,  they  question  her,  and  though  she 
at  first  refuses  to  give  an  account  of  herself, 
they  soon  discover  that  the  girl  had  passt '  *Se 
time  with  a  man, —  young  J  Ian  Jeffcote.  .^er 
parents  are  naturally  horrified,  and  decide  to  force 
the  J.:f cotes  to  have  Jlan  marry  Fatny. 

In  the  old  mother  of  Fanny  the  author  has  suc- 
ceeded in  giving  a  most  splendid  characterization 
of  the  born  drudge,  hardened  by  her  long  struggle 
with  poverty,  and  grown  shrewd  in  the  ways  of  the 
world.  She  knows  her  daughter  so  little,  how- 
ever, that  she  believes  Fanny  had  schemed  the  af- 
fair with  /^lan  in  the  hope  that  she  might  force  him 
to  marry  her.     In  her  imagination  the  old  woman 


Hindu  Wakes 


229 


already  sees  Fanny  as  the  mistress  of  the  Jeffcote 
estate.  She  persuades  her  husband  to  go  immedi- 
ately to  the  Jeffcotes,  and  though  it  is  very  late  at 
night,  the  old  man  is  forced  to  start  out  on  his  dis- 
agreeable errand. 

Jeffcote,  a  man  of  integrity,  is  much  shocked  at 
the  news  brought  to  him  by  old  Ilatcthorne. 
Nevertheless  he  will  not  countenance  the  wrong. 

Jeffcote.     I'll  sec  you're  treated  rijjht.     Do  you  hear? 
Christopher.     I  can't  ask  for  more  than  that. 
Jeffcote.     I'll  see  you're  treated  right. 

Young  Alan  had  never  known  responsibility. 
Why  should  he,  with  so  much  wealth  awaiting 
him?  When  confronted  by  his  father  and  told 
that  he  must  marry  Fanny,  he  fights  har  gainst 
it.  It  may  be  said,  in  justice  to  Alan,  that  he 
really  loves  his  betrothed,  Beatrice,  though  such  a 
circumstance  has  never  deterred  the  Alans  from 
having  a  lark  with  another  girl. 

The  young  man  resents  his  father's  command  to 
marry  the  mill  girl.  But  when  even  Beatrice  in- 
sists that  he  belongs  to  Fanny,  Alan  unwillingly 
consents.  Beatrice,  a  devout  Christian,  believes 
in  renunciation. 

Beatrice.  I  do  need  you,  Alan.  So  much  that  noth- 
ing on  earth  could  make  me  hreak  off  our  engagement, 
if  I  felt  that  it  was  at  all  possible  to  let  it  go  on.  But 
it  isn't.     It's  impossible. 


ft 


:  Li'j 


230 


Stanley  Houghton 


Alan.     And  you  want  mc  to  marry  Fanny? 

Beatrice.  Yes.  Oh,  Alan!  can't  you  see  what  a 
spl.  ndid  sacrifice  you  have  it  in  your  power  to  make? 
Not  only  to  do  the  right  thing,  but  to  give  up  so  much 
in  order  to  do  it. 

The  Jef cotes  and  the  Hawthornes  gather  to  ar- 
range the  marriage  of  their  children.  It  does  not 
occur  to  them  to  consult  Fanny  in  the  matter. 
Much  to  their  consternation,  Fanny  refuses  to 
abide  by  the  decision  of  the  family  council. 

Fanny.  It's  very  good  of  you.  You'll  hire  the  par- 
son and  get  the  license  and  make  all  the  arrangements 
on  your  own  without  consulting  me,  and  I  shall  have 
nothing  to  do  save  turn  up  meek  as  a  lamb  at  the  church 
or  registry  office  or  whatever  it  is.  .  .  .  That's  just  where 
you  make  the  mistake.  I  don't  want  to  marry  Alan.  .  .  . 
I  mean  what  I  say,  and  I'll  trouble  you  to  talk  to  me 
without  swearing  at  me.     I'm  not  one  of  th'  family  yet. 

The  dismayed  parents,  and  even  Alan,  plead 
with  her  and  threaten.  But  Fanny  is  obdurate. 
At  last  Jian  asks  to  be  left  alone  with  her,  confi- 
dent that  he  can  persuade  the  girl. 

Alan.  Look  here,  Fanny,  what's  all  this  nonsense 
about?  .  .  .  Why  won't  you  marry  me? 

Fanny.  You  c.m't  understand  a  girl  not  jumping  at 
you  when  she  ^ets  the  chance,  can  you?  .  .  .  How  is  it 
that  you  aren't  going  to  marry  Beatrice  Farrar? 
Weren't  you  fond  of  her? 


•u^VD'^j^^f^  ,r:.wi<m]imz 


HinMe  Wakes 


231 


Alan.  Very.  ...  I  pave  her  up  because  my  father 
made  me. 

Fanny.     Made  yoi  "*    Good  Lord,  a  chap  of  your  age! 

Alan.  My  father's  a  man  who  will  have  his  own 
way.  ...  He  can  keep  me  short  of  brass. 

Fanny.     Earn  some  brass. 

Alan.  I  can  earn  some  brass,  but  it  will  mean  hard 
work  and  it'll  take  time.  And,  after  all,  I  shan't  earn 
anything  like  what  I  ^ct  now. 

Fanny.  Then  all  you  want  to  wed  mc  for  is  what 
you'll  get  with  me?  I'm  to  be  given  awaj  with  a  pound 
of  tea,  as  it  were? 

Alan.  I  know  why  you  won't  marry  me.  .  .  .  You're 
doing  it  for  my  sake. 

Fanny.  Don't  you  kid  yourself,  my  lad!  It  isn't  be- 
cause I'm  afraid  of  spoiling  your  life  that  I'm  refusing 
you,  but  because  I'm  afraid  of  spoiling  mine!  That 
didn't  occur  to  you? 

Alan.  Look  here,  Fanny,  I  promise  you  I'll  treat  you 
fair  all  the  time.  You  don't  need  to  fear  that  folk'U 
look  down  on  you.  We  shall  have  too  much  money  for 
that. 

Fanny.  I  can  manage  all  right  on  twenty-five  bob  a 
week. 

Alan.  I'm  going  to  fall  between  two  stools.  It's  all 
up  with  Beatrice,  of  course.  And  if  you  won't  have  me 
I  shall  have  parted  from  her  to  no  purpose;  besides  get- 
ting kicked  out  of  the  house  by  my  father,  more  than 
likely !  You  said  you  were  fond  of  me  once,  but  it  hasn't 
taken  you  long  to  alter. 
'  Fanny.     All   women   aren't   built   alike.     Beatrice   is 


232 


Stanley  Houghton 


religious.  She'll  be  sorry  for  you.  I  was  fond  of  you 
in  a  way. 

Alan.     But  you  didn't  ever  really  love  me? 

Fanny.  Love  you?  Good  heavens,  of  coujse  not  I 
Why  on  earth  should  I  love  you?  You  were  just  some- 
one to  have  a  bit  of  fun  with.  You  were  an  amuse- 
ment—  a  lark.     How  much  more  did  you  care  for  me? 

Alan.    But  it's  not  the  same.     I'm  a  man. 

Fanny.  You're  a  man,  and  I  was  your  little  fancy. 
Well,  I'm  a  yvoman,  and  you  were  my  little  fancy.  You 
wouldn't  prevent  a  woman  enjoying  herself  as  well  as  a 
man,  if  she  takes  it  into  her  head  ? 

Alan.  But  do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  didn't  care 
any  more  for  me  than  a  fellow  cares  for  any  girl  he  hap- 
pens to  pick  up? 

Fanny.     Yes.     Are  you  shocked? 

Alan.     It's  a  bit  thick;  it  is  really! 

Fanny.     You're  a  beauty  to  talk! 

Alan.  It  sounds  so  jolly  immoral.  I  never  thought 
of  a  girl  looking  on  a  chap  just  like  that!  I  made  sure 
you  wanted  to  marry  me  if  you  got  the  chance. 

Fanny.  No  fear!  You're  not  good  enough  for  me. 
The  chap  Fanny  Hawthorn  weds  has  got  to  be  made  of 
different  stuflE  from  you,  my  lad.  My  husband,  i^  'er 
I  have  one,  will  be  a  man,  not  a  fellow  who'll  thrc  .  .er 
his  girl  at  his  father's  bidding!  Strikes  me  the  sons  of 
these  rich  manufacturers  are  all  much  alike.  They  seem 
a  bit  weak  in  the  upper  story.  It's  their  father's  brass 
that's  too  much  for  them,  h^pen!  .  .  .  You've  no  call 
to  be  afraid.    I'm  not  going  to  disgrace  you.    But  so 


Hindle  Wakes 


233 


long  as  I've  to  live  my  own  life  I  don't  see  why  I 
shouldn't  choose  what  it's  to  be. 

Unheard  of,  is  it  not,  that  a  Fanny  should  re- 
fuse to  be  made  a  "  good  woman,"  and  that  she 
should  dare  demand  the  right  to  live  in  her  own 
way?  It  has  always  been  considered  the  most 
wonderful  event  in  the  life  of  a  girl  if  a  young 
man  of  wealth,  of  position,  of  station  came  into 
her  life  and  said,  "  I  will  take  you  as  my  wife  until 
death  do  us  part." 

But  a  new  type  of  girlhood  is  in  the  making. 
We  are  developing  the  Fannies  who  learn  in  the 
school  of  life,  the  hardest,  the  cruelest  and  at  the 
same  time  the  most  vital  and  instructive  school. 
Why  should  Fanny  marry  a  young  man  in  order  to 
become  "  good,"  any  more  than  that  he  should 
marry  her  in  order  to  become  good?  Is  it  not  be- 
cause we  have  gone  on  for  centuries  believing  that 
woman's  value,  her  integrity  and  position  in  so- 
ciety center  about  her  sex  and  consist  only  in  her 
virtue,  and  that  all  other  usefulness  weighs  naught 
in  the  balance  against  her  "  purity  "  ?  If  she  dare 
express  her  sex  as  the  Fannies  do,  we  deny  her  in- 
dividual and  social  worth,  and  stamp  her  fallen. 

The  past  of  a  man  is  never  questioned:  no 
one  inquires  how  many  Fannies  have  been  in  his 
life.  Yet  man  has  the  impudence  to  expect  the 
Fannies  to  abstain  till  he  is  ready  to  bestow  on 
them  his  name. 


)  - 


234 


Stanley  Houghton 


"  HIndle  Wakes  "  is  a  much  needed  and  impor- 
tant  social  lesson, —  not  because  it  necessarily  in- 
volves the  idea  that  every  girl  must  have  sex  ex- 
perience before  she  meets  the  man  she  loves,  but 
rather  that  she  has  the  right  to  satisfy,  if  she  so 
chooses,  her  emotional  and  sex  demands  like  any 
other  need  of  her  mind  and  body.  When  the 
Fannies  become  conscious  of  that  right,  the  rela- 
tion of  the  sexes  will  lose  the  shallow  romanticism 
and  artificial,  exaggeration  that  mystery  has  sur- 
rounded it  with,  and  assume  a  wholesome,  natural, 
and  therefore  healthy  and  normal  expression. 


■{'•■•i.-*>3i 


t    i 


GITHA  SOWERBY 


v.i 


RUTHERFORD  AND  SON 


THE  women's  rights  women  who  claim 
for  their  sex  the  most  wonderful  things 
in  the  way  of  creative  achievement,  will 
find  it  difficu!  to  explain  the  fact  that 
until  the  author  of  "  Rutherford  and  Son  "  made 
her  appearance,  no  country  had  produced  a  single 
woman  dramatist  of  note. 

That  is  the  more  remarkable  because  woman 
has  since  time  immemorial  been  a  leading  figure  in 
histrionic  art.  Rachel,  Sarah  Bernhardt,  Elea- 
nore  Duse,  and  scores  of  others  have  had  few  male 
peers. 

It  can  hardly  be  that  woman  is  merely  a  repro- 
ducer and  not  a  creator.  We  have  but  to  recall 
such  creative  artists  as  Charlotte  and  Emily 
Bronte,  George  Sand,  George  Eliot,  Mary  Woll- 
stonecraft,  Marie  Bashkirtshev,  Rosa  Bonheur, 
Sophia  Kovalevskaya  and  a  host  of  others,  to  ap- 
preciate that  woman  lias  been  a  creative  factor  in 
literature,  art  and  science.  Not  so  in  the  drama, 
so  far  the  stronghold  exclusively  of  men. 

It  is  therefore  an  event  for  a  woman  to  come 

235 


t. 

m 


236 


Githa  Sowerby 


to  the  fore  who  possesses  such  dramatic  power, 
realistic  grasp  and  artistic  penetration  as  evi- 
denced by  Githa  Sowerby. 

The  circumstance  is  the  more  remarkable  be- 
cause Githa  Sowerby  is,  according  to  her  pub- 
lishers, barely  out  of  her  teens;  and  though  she  be 
a  genius,  her  exceptional  maturity  is  a  phenomenon 
rarely  observed.  Generally  maturity  comes  only 
with  experience  and  suffering.  No  one  who  has 
not  felt  the  ^crushing  weight  of  the  Rutherford 
atmosphere  could  have  painted  such  a  vivid  and 
life-like  picture. 

The  basic  theme  in  *'  Rutherford  and  Son  "  is 
not  novel.  Turgenev,  Ibsen  and  such  lesser  art- 
ists as  Sudermann  and  Stanley  Houghton  have 
dealt  with  it:  the  chasm  between  the  old  and  the 
young, —  the  tragic  struggle  of  parents  against 
their  children,  the  one  frantically  holding  on,  the 
other  recklessly  letting  go.  But  "  Rutherford 
and  Son  "  is  more  than  that.  It  is  a  picture  of  the 
paralyzing  effect  of  tradition  and  institutlonalism 
on  all  human  life,  growth,  and  change. 

John  Rutherford,  the  owner  of  the  firm 
"  Rutherford  and  Son."  is  possessed  by  the  phan- 
tom of  the  past  —  the  thing  handed  down  to  him 
by  his  father  and  which  he  must  pass  on  to  his  son 
with  undiminished  luster;  the  thing  that  has  turned 
his  soul  to  iron  and  his  heart  to  stone ;  the  thing 
for  the  sake  of  which  he  has  never  known  joy  and 


Rutherford  and  Son 


m 


because  of  which  no  one  else  must  know  joy, — 
"  Rutherford  and  Son." 

The  crushing  weight  of  this  inexorable  monster 
on  Rutherford  and  his  children  is  significantly 
summed  up  by  young  John : 

John.  Have  you  ever  heard  of  Moloch?  No.  .  .  . 
Well,  Moloch  was  a  sort  of  a  God  .  .  .  some  time  ago, 
you  know,  before  Dick  and  his  kind  came  along.  They 
built  his  image  with  an  ugly  head  ten  times  the  size  of 
a  real  head,  with  great  wheels  instead  of  legs,  and  set  him 
up  in  the  middle  of  a  great  dirtj'  town.  And  they 
thought  him  a  very  important  person  indeed,  and  made 
sacrifices  to  him  .  .  .  human  sacrifices  ...  to  keep  him 
going,  you  know.  Out  of  every  family  they  set  aside  one 
child  to  be  an  ofJcring  to  him  when  it  was  big  enough,  and 
at  last  it  became  a  sort  of  honor  to  be  dedicated  in  this 
way,  so  much  so,  that  the  victims  came  themselves  gladly 
to  be  crushed  out  of  life  under  the  great  wheels.  That 
was  M'  ''^'^h. 

Janet,  u^  ated  —  we  are  dedicated  —  all  of  us  — 
to  Rutherfords'. 

Not  only  the  Rutherford  children,  their  with- 
ered Junt  Ann,  and  old  Rutherford  himself,  but 
even  Martin,  the  faithful  servant  in  the  employ  of 
the  Rutherfords  for  twenty-five  years,  is  "  dedi- 
cated," and  when  he  ceases  to  be  of  use  to  their 
Moloch,  he  is  turned  into  a  thief  and  then  cast 
off,  even  as  Janet  and  John. 

Not  love  for  John,  his  oldest  son,  or  sympathy 


% 


!  -'^n 


■i  ■■■   1 

m 


JiJta 


b 


238 


Githa  Sowerby 


with  the  latter's  wife  and  child  induces  old  Ruther- 
ford to  forgive  his  son's  marriage  with  a  mere 
shop-girl,  but  because  he  needs  John  to  serve  the 
house  of  Rutherford.  The  one  inexorable  pur- 
pose, always  and  ever! 

His  second  son  RichMrd,  who  is  in  the  ministry, 
and  "  of  no  use  "  to  old  Rutherford's  God  of 
stone,  receives  the  loving  assurance :  '*  You  were 
no  good  for  my  purpose,  and  there's  the  end;  for 
the  matter  p'  that,  you  might  just  as  well  never 
ha'  been  born." 

For  that  matter,  his  daughter  Janet  might  also 
never  have  been  born,  except  that  she  was  "  good 
enough  "  to  look  after  her  father's  house,  serve 
him,  even  helping  take  off  his  boots,  and  submitting 
without  a  murmur  to  the  loveless,  dismal  life  in 
the  Rutherford  home.  Her  father  has  sternly 
kept  every  suitor  away,  "  because  no  one  in  Grant- 
ley's  good  enough  for  us."  Janet  has  become 
faded,  sour  and  miserable  with  yearning  for  love, 
for  sunshine  and  warmth,  and  when  she  at  last 
dares  to  partake  of  it  secretly  with  her  father's 
trusted  man  Manin,  old  Rutherford  sets  his  iron 
heel  upon  her  love,  and  drags  it  through  the  mud 
till  it  lies  dead. 

Again,  when  he  faces  the  spirit  of  rebellion  in 
his  son  John,  Rutherford  crushes  it  without  the 
slightest  hesitation  in  behalf  of  his  one  obsession, 
his  one  God  —  the  House  of  Rutherford. 


Rutherford  and  Son 


239 


John  has  made  an  invention  which  holds  great 
possibilities.  By  means  of  it  he  hopes  to  shake 
off  the  deadly  grip  of  the  Rutherfords'.  He 
wants  to  become  a  free  man  and  mold  a  new  life 
for  himself,  for  his  wife  and  child.  He  knows  his 
father  will  not  credit  the  value  of  his  invention. 
He  dare  not  approach  him:  the  Rutherford  chil- 
dren have  been  held  in  dread  of  their  parent  too 
long. 

John  turns  to  Martin,  the  faithful  servant,  the 
only  one  in  the  confidence  of  Rutherford.  John 
feels  himself  safe  with  Martin.  But  he  does  not 
know  that  Martin,  too,  is  dedicated  to  Moloch, 
broken  by  his  twenty-five  yeais  of  service,  left 
without  will,  without  purpose  outside  of  the 
Rutherfords'. 

Martin  tries  to  enlist  Rutherford's  interest  in 
behalf  of  John.  But  the  old  man  decides  that 
John  must  turn  over  his  invention  to  the  House  of 
Rutherford. 

Rutherford.     What's  your  receipt? 

John.  I  want  to  know  where  I  stand.  ...  I  want 
my  price. 

Rutherford.  Your  price  —  your  price?  Damn  your 
impudence,  sir.  ...  So  that's  your  line,  is  it?  .  .  .  This 
is  what  I  get  for  all  I've  done  for  you.  .  .  .  This  is  the 
result  of  the  schooling  I  gave  you.  I've  toiled  and 
sweated  to  give  you  a  name  you'd  be  proud  to  own  — 
worked  early  and  late,  toiled  like  a  dog  waen  other  men 


lb 


240 


Githa  Sowerby 


<: 


were  taking  their  ease  —  plotted  and  planned  to  get  my 
chance,  taken  it  and  held  it  when  it  come  till  I  couiu  ha' 
burst  with  the  struggle.  Sell !  You  talk  o'  selling  to  me, 
when  everything  you'll  ever  make  couldn't  pay  back  the 
life  I've  given  to  you! 

John.  Oh,  I  know,  I  know.  I've  been  both  for  five 
years.     Only  I've  had  no  salary. 

Rutherford.  You've  been  put  to  learn  your  business 
like  any  other  young  fellow.  I  began  at  the  bottom  — 
you've  got  to  do  the  same.  .  .  .  Your  father  has  lived 
here,  and  your  grandfather  before  you.  It's  your  in- 
heritance—  cari't  you  realize  that?  —  what  you've  got  to 
come  to  when  I'm  under  ground.  We've  made  it  for 
you,  stone  by  stone,  penny  by  penny,  fighting  through 
thick  and  thin  for  close  on  a  hundred  years.  .  .  .  It's 
what  you've  got  to  do  —  or  starve.  You're  my  son  — 
you've  got  to  come  after  me. 

Janet  knows  her  father  better  than  John;  she 
knows  that  "  no  one  ever  stands  out  against 
father  for  long  —  or  else  they  get  so  knocked 
about,  they  don't  matter  any  more."  Janet 
knows,  and  when  the  moment  arrives  that  brings 
her  father's  blow  upon  her  head,  it  does  not  come 
as  a  surprise  to  her.  When  old  Rutherford  dis- 
covers her  relation  with  Martin,  his  indignation  is 
as  characteristic  of  the  man  as  everything  else  in 
his  life.  It  is  not  outraged  morality  or  a  father's 
love.  It  is  always  and  forever  the  House  of 
Rutherford.  Moreover,  the  discovery  of  the 
affair  between   his   daughter   and   his  workman 


Rutherford  and  Son 


241 


comes  at  a  psychologic  moment:  Rutherford  is 
determined  to  get  hold  of  John's  invention  —  for 
the  Rutherfords,  of  course  —  and  now  that  Mar- 
tin has  broken  faith  with  his  master,  his  offense 
serves  an  easy  pretext  for  Rutherford  to  break 
faith  with  Martin.  He  calls  the  old  servant  to  his 
office  and  demands  the  receipt  of  John's  invention, 
entrusted  to  Martin.  On  the  latter's  refusal  to 
betray  John,  the  master  plays  on  the  man's  loyalty 
to  the  Rutherfords. 

Rutherford.  Rutherfords'  is  going  down  —  down.  I 
got  to  pull  her  up,  somehow.  There's  one  way  out.  .  .  . 
Mr.  John's  made  this  metal  —  a  thing,  I  take  your  word 
for  it,  that's  worth  a  fortune.  And  we're  going  to  sit 
by  and  watch  him  fooling  it  away  —  selling  it  for  a  song 
to  Miles  or  Jarvis,  that  we  could  break  to-morrow  if  we 
had  half  a  chance.  .  .  .  You've  got  but  to  put  your  hand 
in  your  pocket  to  save  the  place  and  you  don't  do  it. 
You're  with  them  —  you're  with  the  money-grubbing  lit- 
tle souls  that  can't  f"  '  -^"fl  the  next  shilling  ti.ey  put 
in  their  pockets.  .  .  When  men  steal,  Martin,  they 
do  it  to  gain  somethint'.  If  I  steal  this,  what'U  I  gain 
by  it?  If  I  make  monej  what'U  I  buy  with  it?  Pleas- 
ure, maybe?  Children  to  come  after  me  —  glad  o'  what 
I  done?  Tell  me  anything  in  the  wide  world  that'd 
bring  me  joy,  and  I'll  swear  to  you  never  to  touch  it. 
...  If  you  give  it  to  me  what'U  you  gain  by  it?  Not 
a  f 3 'thing  shall  you  ever  have  from  me  —  no  more  than 
I  get  myself. 

Martin.    And  what  will  Mr.  John  get  for  it? 


242 


Githa  Sowerby 


Rutherford.  Rutherfords'— when  I'm  gone.  He'll 
thank  you  in  ten  years  — he'll  come  to  laugh  at  himself 
—  him  and  his  price.  He'll  see  the  Big  Thing  one  day, 
mebbe,  like  what  I've  done.  He'?l  see  that  it  was  no 
more  his  than  'twas  yours  to  give  nor  mine  to  take.  .  .  . 
It's  Rutherfords'.  .  .  .  Will  you  give  it  to  me? ' 

Martin.  I  take  shame  to  be  doing  it  now.  ...  He 
worked  it  out  p'ong  o'  me.  Every  time  it  changed  he 
come  running  to  show  me  like  a  bairn  wi'  a  new  toy. 

Rutherford.    It's  for  Rutherfords'.  .  .  . 

Rutherfofds*  ruthlessly  marches  on.  If  the 
Rutherford  purpose  does  not  shrink  from  corrupt- 
ing  its  most  trusted  servant,  it  surely  will  not  bend 
before  a  daughter  who  has  dared,  even  once  in  her 
life,  to  assert  herself. 

Rutherford.    How  far's  it  gone? 

Janet.  Right  at  first  — I  made  up  my  mind  that  if 
you  ever  found  out,  I'd  go  r'  it  away,  to  put  things 
straight.  He  wanted  to  tell  yr  .t  the  first.  But  I  knew 
that  it  would  be  no  use.  .  .  .  it  was  /  said  not  to  tell 
you. 

Rutherford.  Martin  .  .  .  that  I  trusted  as  I  trust 
myself. 

Janet.  You  haven't  turned  him  away  — you  couldn't 
do  thitl 

Rutherford.    That's  my  business. 

Janet.    You  couldn't  do  that  ...  not  Martin.  .  .  . 

Rutherford.  Leave  it  — leave  it  .  .  .  Martin's  my 
servant,  that  I  pay  wages  to.  I  made  a  name  for  my 
children  —  a  name  respected  in  all  the  countryside  —  and 


Rutherford  and  Son 


243 


you  go  with  a  workingman.  .  .  .  To-morrow  you  leave 
my  house.  D'ye  understand?  I'll  have  no  light  ways 
under  my  roof.  No  one  shall  say  I  winked  at  it.  You 
can  bide  the  night.  To-morrow  when  I  come  in  I'm  to 
find  ye  gone.  .  .  .  Your  name  shan't  be  spoken  in  my 
house  .  .  .  never  again. 

Janet.  CMi,  you've  no  pity.  ...  I  was  thirty-six. 
Gone  sour.  Nobody'd  ever  come  after  me.  Not  even 
when  I  was  young.  You  took  care  o'  that.  Half  of  my 
life  was  gone,  well-nigh  all  of  it  that  mattered.  .  .  . 
Martin  loves  me  honest.  Don't  you  come  near!  Don't 
you  touch  that!  .  .  .  You  think  that  I'm  sorry  you've 
found  out  —  you  think  you've  done  for  me  when  you  use 
shameful  words  on  me  and  turn  me  out  o'  your  house. 
You've  let  me  out  o'  jail!  Whatever  happens  to  me 
now,  I  shan't  go  on  living  as  I  lived  here.  Whatever 
Martin's  done,  he's  taken  me  from  you.  You've  ruined 
my  life,  you  with  your  getting  on.  I've  loved  in  wretch- 
edness, all  the  joy  I  ever  had  made  wicked  by  the 
fear  o'  you.  .  .  .  Who  are  you?  Who  are  you?  A 
man  —  a  man  that  takes  power  to  himself,  power  to 
gather  people  to  him  and  use  them  as  he  wills  —  a  man 
that'd  take  the  blood  of  life  itself  and  put  it  into  the 
Works  —  into  Rutherfords'.  And  v,hat  ha'  you  got  by  it 
—  what?  You've  got  Dick,  that  you've  bullied  till  he's  a 
fool  —  John,  that's  waiting  for  the  time  when  he  can 
sell  what  you've  done  —  and  you  got  me  —  me  to  take 
your  boots  off  at  night  —  to  well-nigh  wish  you  dead 
when  I  had  to  touch  you.  .  .  .  Now!  .  .  .  Now  you 
know  it! 


U 


M 


244 


Githa  Sowerby 


But  for  the  great  love  in  her  heart,  Janet  could 
n  .^  have  found  courage  to  face  her  father  as  she 
Jk:  But  love  gives  strength;  it  instills  hope  and 
Uir\  and  kindles  anew  the  fires  of  life.  Why, 
flu  ..  should  it  not  be  strong  enough  to  break  the 
favurs  of  even  Rutherfords' ?  Such  a  love  only 
rlu.oc  T:  /'.  „d  for  affection  and  warmth  can  feel, 
aid  'u/.,,  was  famished  for  life. 


Jo-^-'  nad  a  dream  —  a  dream  that  I  was  in  a  place 

w-i'  riuwf.s,  in  the  summer-time,  white  anH  thick  like  they 
never  grow  on  the  moor  —  but  it  was  the  moor  —  a  place 
near  Martin's  cottage.  And  I  dreamt  that  he  came  to 
me  with  the  look  he  had  when  I  was  u  little  lass,  with  his 
head  up  and  the  lie  gone  out  of  his  eyes.  All  the  time 
I  knew  I  was  on  my  bed  in  my  room  here  — but  it  was 
as  if  sweetness  poured  into  me,  spreading  and  covering 
me  like  the  water  in  the  tarn  when  the  rains  are  heavy 
m  the  fells.  .  .  .  That's  why  I  dreamt  of  him  so  last 
night.  It  was  as  if  all  that  was  best  in  me  was  in  that 
dream  — what  I  was  as  a  bairn  and  what  I'm  going  to 
be.  He  couldn't  help  but  love  me.  It  was  a  message — 
I  couldn't  have  thought  of  it  by  myself.  It's  something 
that's  come  to  me  — here  (putting  her  hands  on  her 
breast).     Part  of  me! 

All  that  lay  dormant  in  Janet  now  turns  into 
glowing  fire  at  the  touch  of  Spring.  But  in 
Martin  life  has  been  marred,  strangled  by  the  iron 
hand  of  Rutherfords'. 


Rutherford  and  Son 


245 


Martin.  Turned  away  I  am,  sure  enough.  Twenty- 
five  years.     And  in  a  minute  it's  broke.     Wi'  t%vo  words. 

Janet.  You  say  that  now  because  your  heart's  cold 
with  the  trouble.  But  it'll  warm  again  —  it'll  warm 
again.  I'll  warm  it  out  of  my  own  heart,  Martin  —  my 
heart  that  can't  be  made  cold. 

Martin.  I'd  rather  ha'  died  than  he  turn  me  away. 
I'd  ha*  lost  everything  in  the  world  to  know  that  I  was 
true  to  'm,  like  I  was  till  you  looked  at  me  wi'  the  love 
in  your  face.  It  was  a  great  love  ye  gave  me  —  you  in 
your  grand  hoose  wi'  your  delicate  ways.  But  it's  broke 
me. 

Janet.  But  —  it's  just  the  same  with  us.  Just  the 
same  as  ever  it  was. 

Martin.  Aye.  But  there's  no  mending,  wi'  the  likes 
o'  him. 

Janet.  What's  there  to  mend  ?  Wliat's  there  to  mend 
except  what's  bound  you  like  a  slave  all  the  years? 
You're  free  —  free  for  the  first  time  since  you  were  a 
lad  mebbe.  We'll  begin  again.  We'll  be  happy  — 
happy.  You  and  me,  free  in  the  world!  All  the  time 
that's  been  '11  be  just  like  a  dream  that's  past,  a  waiting 
time  afore  we  found  each  other  —  the  long  winter  afore 
the  flowers  come  out  white  and  thick  on  the  moors  — 

Martin.  Twenty-five  years  ago  he  took  me.  .  .  .  It's 
too  long  to  change.  .  .  .  I'll  never  do  his  work  no  more; 
but  it's  like  as  if  he'd  be  my  master  just  the  same  — 
till  I  die  — 

Janet.  Listen,  Martin.  Listen  to  me.  You've 
worked  all  your  life  for  him,  ever  since  you  were  a  little 


246 


Githa  Sowerby 


lad.    Early  and  late  you've  been  at  the  Works  — work- 
ing —  working  —  for  him. 
Martin.     Gladly! 

Janet.     Now  and  then  he  give  you  a  kind  word  — 

when  you  were  wearied  out  mebbe  — and  your  thoughts 

might  ha'  turned  to  what  other  men's  lives  were,  wi' 

time  for  rest  and  pleasure.     You  didn't  see  through  him, 

you  wi'  your  big  heart,  Martin.     You  were  too  near  to 

see,   like   I   was   till   Mary  came.     You  worked  gladly 

maybe  — but    all    the    time    your    life    was    going    into 

Rutherfords'— your  manhood  into  the  place  he's  built. 

He's  had  yoiv  Martin,— like  he's  had  me,  and  all  ot  us. 

We  used  to  say  he  was  hard  and  ill-tempered.     Bad  to 

do  with  in  the  house  — we  fell  silent  when  he  came  in 

—  we  couldn't  see  for  the  little  things,— we  couldn't  sec 

the  years  passing  because  of  the  days.    And  all  the  time 

it  was  our  iives  he  was  taking  bit  by  bit  — our  lives  that 

we'll  never  get  back Now's  our  chance  at  lastl 

He's  turned  us  both  away,  me  as  well  as  you.  We  two 
he's  sent  out  into  the  world  together.  Free.  He's  done 
it  himself  of  his  own  will.  It's  ours  to  take,  Martin  — 
our  happiness.  We'll  get  it  in  spite  of  him.  He'd  kill 
it  if  he  could. 

The  cruelty  of  it,  that  the  Rutherfords  never 
kill  with  one  blow :  never  so  merciful  are  they.  In 
irheir  ruthless  march  they  strangle  inch  by  inch, 
shed  the  blood  of  life  drop  by  drop,  until  they 
have  broken  the  very  spirit  of  man  and  made  him 
as  helpless  and  pitiful  as  Martin,— 2i  trembling 
leaf  tossed  about  by  the  winds. 


Rutherford  and  Son 


247 


A  picture  of  such  stirring  social  and  human  im- 
portance that  no  one,  except  he  who  has  reached 
the  stage  of  Martin,  can  escape  its  effect.  Yet 
even  more  significant  is  the  inevitability  of  the 
doom  of  the  Rutherfords  as  embodied  in  the  wis- 
dom of  Mary,  John's  wife. 

When  her  husband  steals  his  father's  money  — 
a  very  small  part  indeed  compared  with  what  the 
father  had  stolen  from  him  —  he  leaves  the  hate- 
ful place  and  Mary  remains  to  face  the  master. 
For  the  sake  of  her  child  she  strikes  a  bargain  with 
Rutherford. 

Mary.  A  bargain  is  where  one  person  has  something 
to  sell  '■bat  another  wants  to  buy.  There's  no  love  in  it 
—  only  money  —  money  that  pays  for  life.  I've  got 
something  to  sell  that  you  want  to  buy. 

Rutherford.     What's  that? 

Mary.  My  son.  You've  lost  everything  you've  had 
in  the  world.  John's  gone  —  and  Richard  —  and  Janet. 
They  won't  come  back.  You're  alone  now  and  getting 
old,  with  no  one  to  come  after  you.  When  you  die 
Rutherfords'  will  b.  o-.ld  —  somebody'U  buy  it  and  give 
it  a  new  name  perhaps,  and  no  one  will  even  remember 
that  you  made  it.  That'll  be  the  end  of  all  your  work. 
Just  —  nothing.  You've  thought  of  that.  .  .  .  It's  for 
my  boy.  I  want  —  a  chance  of  life  for  him  —  his  place 
in  the  world.  John  can't  give  him  that,  because  he's 
made  so.  If  I  went  to  London  and  worked  my  hardest 
I'd  get  twenty-five  shillings  a  week.  We've  failed. 
From  you  I  can  get  when  I  want  for  my  boy.     I  want 


f.    ill,  . 

'i  -  I 


< 


i*i 


248 


Githa  Sowerby 


—  all  the  good  common  things :  a  good  house,  good  food, 
warmth.  He's  a  delicate  little  thing  now,  but  he'll  grow 
strong  like  other  children.  .  .  .  Give  me  what  I  ask, 
and  in  return  I'll  give  you  —  him.  On  one  condition. 
I'm  to  stay  on  here.  I  won't  trouble  you  —  you  needn't 
speak  to  me  or  see  me  unless  you  want  to.  For  ten  years 
he's  to  be  absolutely  mine,  to  do  what  I  like  with.  You 
mustn't  interfere  —  you  mustn't  tell  him  to  do  things  or 
frighten  him.     He's  mine  for  ten  years  more. 

Rutherford.    And  after  that? 

Mary.     He'll  be  yours. 

Rutherford.  ,  To  train  up.     For   Rutherfords' ? 

Mary.    Yes. 

Rutherford.  After  all?  After  Dick,  that  I've  bullied 
till  he's  a  fool?    John,  that's  wished  me  dead? 

Mary.  In  ten  years  you'll  be  an  old  man ;  you  won't 
be  able  to  make  people  afraid  of  you  any  more. 

When  I  saw  the  masterly  presentation  of  the 
play  on  the  stage,  Mary's  bargain  looked  unreal 
and  incongruous.  It  seemed  impossible  to  me 
th'.t  a  mother  who  really  loves  her  child  should 
want  it  to  be  in  any  way  connected  with  the  Ruther- 
fords'. But  after  repeatedly  rereading  the  play, 
I  was  convinced  by  Mary's  simple  statement: 
"  In  ten  years  you'll  be  an  old  man;  you  won't  be 
able  to  make  people  afraid  of  you  any  more." 
Most  deeply  true.  The  Rutherfords  ar"  bound 
by  time,  by  the  eternal  forces  of  change.  Their 
influence  on  human  life  is  indeed  terrible.     Not- 


t_ 


Rutherford  and  Son 


249 


withstanding  it  all,  however,  they  are  fighting  a 
losing  game.  They  are  growing  old,  already  too 
old  to  make  anyone  afraid.  Change  and  innova- 
tion are  marching  on,  and  the  Rutherfords  must 
make  place  for  the  young  generation  knocking  at 
the  gates. 


THE  IRISH  DRAMA 
WILLIAM  BUTLER  YEATS 

1^      IW  05T  Americans  know  about  the  Irish 

1%  /I  people  only  that  they  are  not  averse 

I   W   1  tp  drink,  and  that  they  make  brutal 

-*"         -*•  policemen    and    corrupt    politicians. 

But  those  who  are  familiar  with  the  revolutionary 

movements  of  the  past  are  aware  of  the  fortitude 

and  courage,  aye,  of  the  heroism  of  the  Irish, 

manifested  during  their  uprisings,  and  especially 

in  the  Fenian  movement -- the  people's  revolt 

against  political  despotism  and  land  robbery. 

And  though  ror  years  Ireland  has  contributed  to 
the  very  worst  features  of  American  life,  those  in- 
terested  in  the  fate  of  its  people  did  not  despair; 
they  knew  that  the  spirit  of  unrest  in  Ireland  was 
not  appeased,  and  that  it  would  make  itself  felt 
again  in  no  uncertain  form. 

The  cultural  and  rebellious  awakening  in  that 
country  within  the  last  twenty-five  years  once  more 
proves  that  neither  God  nor  King  can  for  long 
suppress  the  manifestation  of  the  latent  possibili- 
ties  of  a  people.     The  possibilities  of  the  Irish 

250 


mm 


The  Irish  Drama 


251 


must  indeed  be  great  if  they  could  inspire  tiie  rich 
humor  of  a  Lady  Gregory,  the  deep  symbolism  of 
a  Yeats,  the  poetic  fancy  of  a  Synge,  and  the  re- 
bellion of  a  Robinson  and  Murray. 

Only  ^  people  unspoiled  by  the  dulling  hand 
of  civilization  and  free  from  artifice  can  retain 
such  simplicity  of  faith  and  remain  so  imaginative, 
so  full  of  fanq'  and  dreams,  wild  and  fiery,  which 
have  kindled  the  creative  spark  in  the  Irish  dram- 
atists of  our  time.  It  is  true  that  the  work  of  only 
the  younger  element  among  them  is  of  social  sig- 
nificance, yet  all  of  them  have  rendered  their  peo- 
ple and  the  rest  of  the  world  a  cultural  service  of 
no  mean  value.  William  Butler  Yeats  is  among 
the  latter,  together  with  Synge  and  Lady  Gregory; 
his  art,  though  deep  in  human  appeal,  has  no  bear- 
ing on  the  pressing  questions  of  our  time.  Mr. 
Yeats  himself  would  repudiate  any  implication 
of  a  social  character,  as  he  considers  such  dramas 
too  "  topical  "  and  therefore  '*  half  bad  "  plays. 
In  view  of  this  attitude,  it  is  difficult  to  reconcile 
his  standard  of  true  art  with  the  repertoire  f  the 
Abbey  Theater,  which  consists  mainly  of  ocial 
dramas.  Still  more  difficult  is  it  to  account  for  his 
work,  "  Where  There  is  Nothing,"  which  is  no 
less  social  in  its  philosophy  and  tendency  than  Ib- 
sen's •'  Brand." 


k 


i; 


252  fVilliam  Butler  Yeats 

WHERE  THERE  IS  NOTHING 

"  Where  There  Is  Nothing  "  is  as  true  an  inter- 
pretation  of  the  philosophy  of  Anarchism  as  could 
be  given  by  its  best  exponents.  I  say  this  not  out 
of  any  wish  to  tag  Mr.  Yeats,  but  because  the  ideal 
of  Paul  Ruttledge,  the  hero  of  the  play,  is  nothing 
less  than  Anarchism  applied  to  everyday  life. 

Paul  Ruttledge,  a  man  of  wealth,  comes  to  the 
conclusion,  after  a  long  process  of  development 
and  growth,  that  riches  are  wrong,  and  that  the 
life  of  the  propertied  is  artificial,  useless  and  in- 
ane. 

Paul  Ruttledge.  When  I  hear  these  people  talking  I 
always  hear  some  organized  or  vested  interest  chirp  or 
quack,  as  it  does  in  the  newspapers.  I  would  like  to 
have  great  iron  daws,  and  to  put  them  about  the  pillars, 
and  to  pull  and  pull  till  everything  fell  into  pieces.  .  .  . 
Sometimes  I  dream  I  am  pulling  down  my  own  house, 
and  sometimes  it  is  the  whole  world  that  I  am  pulling 
down.  .  .  .  When  everything  was  pulled  down  we  would 
have  more  room  to  get  drunk  in,  to  drink  contentedly  out 
of  the  cup  of  life,  out  of  the  drunken  cup  of  life. 

He  decides  to  give  up  his  position  and  wealth 
and  cast  his  lot  in  with  the  tinkers  —  an  element 
we  in  America  know  as  "  hoboes,"  men  who  tramp 
the  highways  making  their  living  as  they  go  about, 
mending  kettles  and  pots,  earning  an  honest  penny 
without  obligation  or  responsibility  to  anyone. 


Where  There  Is  Nothing 


253 


Paul  Ruttledge  longs  for  the  freedom  of  the  road, 
—  to  sleep  under  the  open  sky,  to  count  the  stars, 
to  be  free.  He  throws  off  all  artificial  restraint 
and  is  received  with  open  arms  by  the  tinkers. 
To  identify  himself  more  closely  with  their  life,  he 
marries  a  tinker's  daughter  —  not  according  to 
the  rites  of  State  or  Church,  but  in  true  tinker 
fashion  —  in  freedom  —  bound  only  by  the  prom- 
ise to  be  faithful  and  "  not  hurt  each  other." 

In  honor  of  the  occasion,  Paul  tenders  to  his 
comrades  and  the  people  of  the  neighborhood  a 
grand  feast,  full  of  the  spirit  of  life's  joy, —  an  out- 
pouring of  gladness  that  lasts  a  whole  week. 

Paul's  brother,  his  friends,  and  the  authorities 
are  incensed  over  the  carousal.  They  demand 
that  he  terminate  the  "  drunken  orgy." 

Mr.  Joyce.  This  is  a  disgraceful  business,  Paul;  the 
whole  countryside  is  demoralized.  There  is  not  a  man 
who  has  come  to  sensible  years  who  is  not  drunk. 

Mr.  Dowler.  This  is  a  flagrant  violation  of  all  pro- 
priety. Society  is  shaken  to  its  roots.  My  own  serv- 
ants have  been  led  astray  by  the  free  drinks  that  are  being 
given  in  the  village.  My  butler,  who  has  been  with  me 
for  seven  years,  has  not  been  seen  for  the  last  two  days. 

Mr.  Algie.  I  endorse  his  sentiments  completely. 
There  has  not  been  a  stroke  of  work  done  for  the  last 
week.  The  hay  is  lying  in  ridges  where  it  has  been  cut, 
there  is  not  a  man  to  be  found  to  water  the  cattle.  It  is 
impossible  to  get  as  much  as  a  horse  shod  in  the  vil- 
lage. 


ii: 


|,  ■J'-ia 


Ill' 


i 


IIl 


254 


fVtlliam  Butler  Yeats 


Paul  Ruttledge.  I  think  yo\  have  something  to  say, 
Colonel  Lawley? 

Colonel  Lawley.  I  have  undoubtedly.  I  want  to 
know  when  law  and  order  are  to  be  reestablished.  The 
police  have  been  quite  unable  to  cope  with  the  disorder. 
Some  of  them  have  themselves  got  drunk.  If  my  advice 
had  been  taken  the  military  would  have  been  called  in. 

Mr.  Green.-  The  military  are  not  indispensable  on 
occasions  like  the  present.  There  are  plenty  of  police 
coming  now.  We  have  wired  to  Dublin  for  them,  they 
will  be  here  bv  the  four  o'clock  train. 

Paul  Ruttledge.  But  you  have  not  told  me  what  you 
have  come  here  for.  Is  there  anything  I  can  do  for 
you? 

Mr.  Green.  We  have  come  to  request  you  to  go  to  the 
public-houses,  to  stop  the  free  drinks,  to  send  the  people 
back  to  their  work.  As  for  those  tinkers,  the  law  will 
deal  with  them  when  the  police  arrive. 

Paul  Ruttledge.  I  wanted  to  give  a  little  pleasure  to 
my  fellow-creatures. 

Mr.  Dowler.  This  seems  rather  a  low  form  of  pleas- 
ure. 

Paul  Ruttledge.  I  daresay  it  seems  to  you  a  little  vio- 
lent. But  the  poor  have  very  few  hours  in  which  to  en- 
joy themselves,  they  must  take  their  pleasure  raw;  they 
haven't  the  time  to  cook  it.  Have  we  not  tried  sobriety? 
Do  you  like  it?  I  found  it  very  c'  j  ■.  .  .  .  Think  what 
it  is  to  them  to  have  their  imaginat.-  like  a  blazing  tar- 
barrel  for  a  whole  week.  Work  could  never  bring  them 
such  blessedness  as  that. 


Uhb 


Where  There  Is  Nothing 


255 


Mr.  Doivler.  Everyone  knows  there  is  no  more  valua- 
ble blessing  than  work. 

Paul  Ruttledge  decides  to  put  his  visitors  '*  on 
trial,"  to  let  them  see  themselves  as  they  are  in  all 
their  hypocrisy,  all  their  corruption. 

He  charges  the  military  man,  Colonel  Lauley, 
with  calling  himself  a  Christian,  yet  following  the 
business  of  man-killing.  The  Colonel  is  forced  to 
admit  that  he  had  ordered  his  men  to  fight  in  a 
war,  of  the  justice  of  which  they  knew  nothing,  or 
did  not  believe  in,  and  yet  it  is  "  the  doctrine  of 
your  Christian  church,  of  your  Catholic  church, 
that  he  who  fights  in  an  unjust  war,  knowing  it  to 
be  unjust,  loses  his  own  soul."  Of  the  rich  man 
Dowler,  Paul  Ruttledge  demands  whether  he  could 
pass  through  the  inside  of  a  finger  ring,  and  on 
Paul's  attention  being  called  by  one  of  the  tinkers 
to  the  fine  coat  of  Mr.  Dowler,  he  tells  him  to  help 
himself  to  it.  Threatened  by  Mr.  Green,  the 
spokesman  of  the  law,  with  encouraging  robbery, 
Ruttledge  admonishes  him. 

Ruttledge.  Remember  the  commandment,  "  Give  to 
him  that  asketh  thee  " ;  and  the  hard  commandment  goes 
even  farther,  "Him  that  taketh  thy  cloak  forbid  not  to 
take  thy  coat  also." 

But  the  worst  indictment  Ruttledge  hurls  against 
Mr.  Green.     The  other  professed  Christians  kill. 


2S6 


frUliam  Butler  Yeats 


■  ! 
i  i 

n 


murder,  do  not  love  their  enemies,  and  do  not  give 
to  any  man  that  asics  of  them.  But  the  Greens, 
Ruttledge  says,  are  the  worst  of  all.  For  the 
others  break  the  law  of  Christ  for  their  own 
pleasure,  but  "  you  take  pay  for  breaking  it,;  when 
their  goods  are  taken  away  you  condemn  the  taker ; 
when  they  are  smitten  on  one  cheek  you  punish  the 
smiter.  You  encourage  them  in  their  breaking  of 
the  Law  of  Christ." 

For  several  years  Ruttledge  lives  the  life  of  the 
tinkers.  But  of  weak  physique,  he  finds  himself 
unable  to  withstand  the  rigors  of  the  road.  His 
health  breaks  down,  and  his  faithful  comrades 
carry  him  to  his  native  town  and  bring  him  to  a 
monastery  where  Paul  is  cared  for  by  the  priests. 
While  there  he  begins  to  preach  a  wonderful 
gospel,  a  gospel  strange  to  the  friars  and  the  su- 
perior,—  so  rebellious  and  terrible  that  he  is  de- 
clared a  disenter,  a  heathen  and  a  dangerous  char- 
acter. 

Paul  Ruttledge.  Now  I  can  give  you  the  message  that 
has  come  to  me.  .  .  .  Lay  down  your  palm  branches  be- 
fore this  altar;  you  have  brought  them  as  a  sign  that  the 
walls  are  beginning  to  be  broken  up,  that  we  are  going 
back  to  the  joy  of  the  green  earth.  .  .  .  For  a  long  time 
after  their  making  men  and  women  wandered  here  and 
there,  half  blind  from  the  drunkenness  of  Eternity;  they 
had  not  yet  forgotten  that  the  green  Earth  was  the  Love 
of  God,  and  that  all  Life  was  the  Will  of  God,  and  so 


Where  There  Is  Nothing  257 

they  wept  and  laughed  and  hated  according  to  the  impulse 
of  their  hearts.  They  gathered  the  great  Earth  to  their 
breasts  and  their  lips,  ...  in  what  they  believed  would 
be  an  eternal  kiss.  It  was  then  that  the  temptation  be- 
gan. The  men  ;ind  women  listened  to  them,  and  be- 
cause when  they  had  lived  ...  in  mother  wit  aiid  nat- 
ural kindness,  they  sometimes  did  one  another  an  injury, 
they  thought  that  it  would  be  better  to  be  safe  than  to  be 
blessed,  they  made  the  Laws.  The  Laws  were  the  first 
sin.  They  were  the  first  mouthful  of  the  apple ;  the  mo- 
ment man  had  made  them  he  began  to  die;  we  must  put 
out  the  Laws  as  I  put  out  this  candle.  And  when  they 
had  lived  a.nidst  the  green  Earth  that  is  the  Love  of 
God,  they  were  sometimes  wetted  by  the  rain,  and  some- 
times cold  and  hungry,  and  sometimes  alone  from  one 
another;  they  thought  it  would  be  better  to  be  com- 
fortable than  to  be  blessed.  They  began  to  build  big 
houses  and  big  towns.  They  grew  wealthy  and  they  sat 
chattering  at  their  doors;  and  the  embrace  that  was  to 
have  been  eternal  ended.  .  .  .  We  must  put  out  the 
towns  as  I  put  out  this  candle.  But  that  is  not  all,  for 
man  created  a  worse  thing.  .  .  .  Man  built  up  the 
Church.  We  must  destroy  the  Church,  we  must  put  it 
out  as  I  put  out  this  candle.  .  .  .  We  must  destroy 
everything  that  has  Law  and  Number. 

The  rebel  is  driven  from  the  monastery.  He  is 
followed  by  only  two  faithful  friar ,,  his  disciples, 
who  go  among  the  people  to  disseminate  the  new 
gospeL  But  the  people  fail  to  understand  them. 
Immersed  in  darkness  and  superstition,  they  look 


b 


2s8 


ffilliam  Butler  Yiati 


(i 


Upon  these  strange  men  as  evildoers.  They  ac- 
cuse them  of  casting  an  evil  spell  on  their  cattle 
and  disturbing  the  people's  peace.  The  path  of 
the  crusader  is  thorny,  and  Colman,  the  friar  dis- 
ciple of  Paul,  though  faithful  for  a  time,  becomes 
discouraged  in  the  face  of  opposition  and  persecu- 
tion.    He  weakens. 

Colman.  It's  no  use  stopping  waiting  for  the  wind; 
if  we  have  anything  to  say  that's  worth  the  people  lis- 
tening to,  we  must  bring  them  to  hear  it  one  way  or  an- 
other. Now, '  it  is  what  I  was  saying  to  Aloysius,  we 
must  begin  teaching  them  to  make  things,  they  never  had 
the  chance  of  any  instruction  of  this  sort  here.  Those 
and  other  things,  we  got  a  good  training  in  the  old  days. 
And  we'll  get  a  grant  from  the  Technical  Board.  The 
Board  pays  up  to  four  hundred  pounds  to  some  of  its 
instructors. 

Paul  Ruttledge.  Oh,  I  understand ;  you  will  sell  them. 
And  what  about  the  dividing  of  the  money?  You  will 
need  to  make  laws  about  that.  Oh,  we  will  grow  quite 
rich  in  time. 

Colman.  We'll  build  workshops  and  houses  for  those 
who  come  to  work  from  a  distance,  good  houses,  slated, 
not  thatched.  .  .  .  They  will  think  so  much  more  of 
our  teaching  when  we  have  got  them  under  our  influence 
by  other  things.  Of  course  we  will  teach  them  their 
meditations,  and  give  them  a  regular  religious  life.  We 
must  settle  out  some  little  place  for  them  to  pray  in  — 
there's  a  high  gable  over  there  where  we  could  hang  a 
bell  — 


Where  There  Is  Nothing  259 

Paul  Ruttledge.  Oh,  yes,  I  understand.  \'(m  would 
weave  them  together  like  this,  you  would  add  one  thing 
to  another,  laws  and  money  and  church  and  hells,  till  you 
had  got  everything  back  again  that  you  have  escaped 
from.     But  it  is  mv  business  to  tear  things  asunder. 

Aloysius.  Brotlur  Paul,  it  is  what  I  am  thinking: 
now  the  tinkers  have  come  back  to  you,  you  could  begin 
to  gather  a  sort  of  an  army;  you  can't  fight  your  batth' 
without  an  army.  They  would  call  ro  the  other  tinkers. 
and  the  tramps  and  the  beggars,  and  the  sieve-makers  and 
all  the  waiuisTinp  people.     Tl  woul  1  be  a  great  army. 

Paul  Rutt!.di>:  '^Vs,  that  would  be  a  great  army,  a 
great  wandering  a.;  r.-. 

Aloysius.  The  piople  would  be  afraid  to  refuse  us 
then ;  we  would  march  on  — 

Paul  Ruttledge.  We  could  march  on.  We  coi.id 
march  on  the  towns,  and  we  could  break  up  all  siittU-u  :i- 
der;  we  could  bring  back  the  old  joyful,  dangc.  :,  t.i 
vidual  life.  We  would  have  banners.  Wf  //i'!  riat 
one  great  banner  that  will  go  in  front,  it  w:>i  v  i:';>  •:<■■  n 
men  to  carry  it,  and  on  it  we  will  have  Lai  :h>  >  -•- 

Aloysius.  That  will  be  the  banner  for  tr^  ->.  tit. 
We  will  have  different  troops,  we  will  have  capta'-  Uj 
organize  them,  to  give  them  orders. 

Paul  Ruttledge.  To  organize?  That  is  to  bring  in 
law  and  number.  Organize  —  organize  —  that  is  how 
all  the  mischief  has  been  done.  I  was  forgetting, —  we 
cannot  destroy  the  world  with  armies;  it  is  inside  our 
minds  that  it  must  be  destroyed. 


'.  11 


t 


I 


iiiH 


260 


William  Butler  Yeats 


Deserted,  Paul  Ruttledge  stands  alone  in  his 
crusade,  like  most  iconoclasts.  Misunderstood 
and  persecuted,  he  finally  meets  his  death  at  the 
hands  of  the  infuriated  mob. 

"Where  There  Is  Nothing"  is  of  great  social 
significance,  deeply  revolutionary  in  the  sense  that 
it  carries  the  message  of  the  destruction  of  every 
institution  —  State,  Property,  and  Church  —  that 
enslaves  humanity.  For  where  there  is  nothing, 
there  man  begins. 

A  certain  *  critic  characterized  this  play  as  a 
"statement  of  revolt  against  the  despotism  of 
facts."  Is  there  a  despotism  more  compelling  and 
destructive  than  that  of  the  facts  of  property,  of 
the  State  and  Church?  But  "Where  There  Is 
Nothing  "  is  not  merely  a  "  statement "  of  revolt. 
It  embodies  the  spirit  of  revolt  itself,  of  that  most 
constructive  revolt  which  begins  with  the  destruc- 
tion of  every  obstacle  in  the  path  of  the  new  life 
that  is  to  grow  on  the  debris  of  the  old,  when  the 
paralyzing  yoke  of  institutionalism  shall  have  been 
broken,  and  man  left  free  to  enjoy  Life  and 
Laughter. 


LENOX  ROBINSON 


i\   t 


HARVEST 

TIMOTHY  HURLEY,  an  old  farmer, 
slaves  all  his  life  and  mortgages  his  farm 
in  order  to  enable  his  children  to  lead  an 
idle,  parasitic  life. 
Started  on  this  road  toward  so-called  culture  by 
the  school-master,  William  Lordart,  Hurley's  chil- 
dren leave  their  father's  farm  and  in  due  time  es- 
tablish themselves  in  society  as  priest,  lawyer,  sec- 
retary and  chemist,  respectively. 

The  secretary  son  is  ashamed  of  his  lowly  origin 
and  denies  it.  The  lawyer  son  is  much  more  con- 
cerned with  his  motor  car  than  with  the  condition 
of  the  farm  that  has  helped  him  on  his  feet.  The 
priest  has  departed  for  America,  there  to  collect 
funds  for  Church  work.  Only  Maurice,  the 
youngest  son  of  Timothy  Hurley,  remains  at  home 
as  the  farm  drudge,  the  typical  man  with  the  hoe. 

Jack  Hurley,  the  chemist,  and  Timothy's  only 
daughter  Mary,  retain  some  loyalty  to  the  old 
place,  but  when  they  return  after  an  absence  of 
years,  they  find  themselves  out  of  touch  with  farm 
life,  and  they  too  turn  their  back  on  their  native 

261 


h 


If 

f  .1 


i 
1 


i 


262 


Lenox  Robinson 


heath.  Jack  Hurley's  notion  of  the  country  is 
that  of  most  city  people :  nature  is  beautiful,  the 
scenery  lovely,  so  long  as  it  is  someone  else  who 
has  to  labor  in  the  scorching  sun,  to  plow  and  toil 
in  the  sweat  of  his  brow. 

Jack  and  his  wife  Mildred  are  both  extremely 
romantic  about  the  farm. 

Jack,  It  stands  to  reason  fanning  must  pay  enor- 
mously. Take  a  field  of  oats,  for  instance;  every  grain 
that's  sown  gives  a  huge  percentage  in  return.  ...  I 
don't  know  exactly  how  many  grains  a  stalk  carries,  but 
several  hundred  I'm  sure  .  .  .  why,  there's  no  invest- 
ment in  the  world  would  give  you  a  return  like  that. 

But  soon  they  discover  that  every  grain  of  c  rn 
does  not  yield  hundreds  of  dollars. 

Maurice.  You  can't  have  a  solicitor,  and  a  rriest,  and 
a  chemist  in  a  family  without  spending  money,  and  for 
the  last  ten  years  you've  been  all  drawing  money  out  of 
the  farm  .  .  .  there's  no  more  to  drain  now.  .  .  .  Oh, 
I  suppose  you  think  I'm  a  bloody  fool  not  to  be  able  to 
make  it  pay;  but  sure  what  chance  have  I  and  I  never 
taught  how  to  farm?  There  was  money  and  education 
wanted  to  make  priests  and  doctors  and  gentlemen  of  you 
all,  and  wasn't  there  n>oney  an'  education  wanted  to  make 
a  farmer  of  me?  No;  nothing  taught  me  only  what  I 
picked  up  from  my  father  and  the  men,  and  never  a  bit  of 
fresh  money  to  put  into  the  farm  only  it  all  kept  to  make 
a  solicitor  of  Bob  and  a  chemist  of  you. 


ifemRmspgn^KJ 


IS-  u . 


Harvest 


263 


During  Jack's  visit  to  the  farm  a  fire  breaks  out 
?.nd  several  buildings  on  the  place  are  destroyed. 
Much  to  the  horror  of  the  well-bred  Jack,  he  learns 
that  his  father  himself  had  lit  the  match  in  order 
to  get  "  compensation."  He  sternly  upbraids  the 
old  farmer. 

Jack.     Didn't  you  see  yourself  how  dishonest  it  was? 

Timothy.  Maybe  I  did,  but  I  saw  something  more, 
and  that  was  that  I  was  on  the  way  to  being  put  out  of 
the  farm. 

Jack  is  outraged;  he  threatens  to  inform  on  his 
own  people  and  offers  to  stay  on  the  farm  to  help 
with  the  work.  But  two  weeks'  experience  in  the 
field  beneath  the  burning  sun  is  more  than  delicate 
Jack  can  stand.  He  suffers  fainting  spells,  and 
is  in  the  end  prevailed  upon  by  his  wife  to  leave. 

Mary,  old  Hurley's  daughter,  also  returns  to  the 
farm  for  rest  and  quiet.  But  she  finds  no  peace 
there,  for  the  city  is  too  much  in  her  blood.  There 
is,  moreover,  another  lure  she  cannot  escape. 

Mary.  I  was  too  well  educated  to  be  a  servant,  and 
I  was  never  nappy  as  one,  so  to  better  myself  I  learned 
typing.  .  .  .  It's  a  hard  life,  Jack,  and  I  soon  found  out 
how  hard  it  was,  and  I  was  as  dissatisfied  as  ever.  Then 
there  only  seemed  one  way  out  of  it  .  .  .  and  he  .  .  . 
my  employer,  I  mean.  ...  I  went  into  it  deliberately 
with  my  eyes  open.  You  see,  a  woman  I  knew  chucked 
typing  and  went  in  for  this  .  .  ,  and  I  saw  what  a  splen- 


ii'jg:fta;u.a. .,- ..- .-  ."ii  -iajinj'c: 


264 


Lenox  Robinson 


did  time  she  had,  and  how  happy  she  was  —  and  I  was  so 
miserably  imhappy  — and  how  she  had  everything  she 
wanted  and  I  had  nothing,  and  .  .  .  and  .  .  .  But  this 
life  made  me  unhappy,  too,  and  so  in  desperation  I  came 
home;  but  I've  grown  too  far  away  from  it  all,  and  now 
I'm  going  back.  Don't  you  see.  Jack,  I'm  not  happy 
here.  I  thought  if  I  could  get  home  to  the  farm  and  the 
old  simple  life  it  would  be  all  right,  but  it  isn't.  Every- 
thing jars  on  me,  the  roughness  and  the  hard  living  and 
the  coarse  food  —  oh,  it  seems  ridiculous  —  but  they  make 
me  physically  ill.  I  always  thought,  if  I  could  get  away 
home  to  Knockmalgloss  I  could  start  fair  again.  .  .  . 
So  I  came  home,  and  everything  is  the  same,  and  every- 
one thinks  that  I'm  as  pure  and  innocent  as  when  I  went 
away,  but  ...  but  ..  .  But,  Jack,  the  dreadful  thing 
is  I  want  to  go  back.  ...  I'm  longing  for  that  life,  and 
its  excitement  and  splendor  and  color. 

In  her  misery  and  struggle  a  great  faith  sus- 
tains Mary  and  keeps  her  from  ruin.  It  is  the 
thought  of  her  father,  in  whom  she  believes  im- 
plicitly as  her  ideal  of  honesty,  strength  and  incor- 
ruptibility. The  shock  is  terrible  when  she  learns 
that  her  father,  even  her  father,  has  fallen  a  victim 
to  the  cruel  struggle  of  life, — that  her  father  him- 
self set  fire  to  the  buildings. 

Mary.  And  I  thought  he  was  so  simple,  so  innoc  t, 
so  unspoiled!  .  .  .  Father,  the  simple,  honest  peasant, 
the  only  decent  one  of  us.  I  cried  all  last  night  at  the 
contrast!  His  unselfishness,  his  simplicity.  .  .  .  Why, 
we're  all  equally  bad  now  — he  and  I— we  both  sell 


;. 


Harvest 


265 


ourselves,  he  for  the  price  of  those  old  houses  and  I  for 
a  few  years  of  splendor  and  happiness.  .  .  . 

The  only  one  whom  life  seems  to  teach  nothing 
is  Schoolmaster  Lordan.  Ob''  /lous  of  the  stress 
and  storm  of  reality,  he  continues  to  be  enraptured 
with  education,  with  culture,  with  the  opportunities 
offered  by  the  large  cities.  He  is  particularly 
proud  of  the  Hurley  children. 

Lordan.  The  way  you've  all  got  on !  I  tell  you  what, 
if  every  boy  and  ^Irl  I  ever  taught  had  turned  out  a  fail- 
ure I'd  feel  content  and  satisfied  when  I  looked  at  all  of 
you  and  saw  what  I've  made  of  you. 

Mary.  What  you've  made  of  us?  I  wonder  do  you 
really  know  what  you've  made  of  us? 

Lordan.  Isn't  it  easily  seen?  One  with  a  motor  car, 
no  less.  ...  It  was  good,  sound  seed  I  sowed  long  ago 
in  the  little  schoolhouse  and  it's  to-day  you're  all  reaping 
the  harvest. 

"  Harvest "  is  a  grim  picture  of  civilization  in 
its  especially  demoralizing  effects  upon  the  people 
who  spring  from  the  soil.  The  mock  culture  and 
shallow  education  which  inspire  peasant  folk  with 
awe,  which  lure  the  children  away  from  home, 
only  to  crush  the  vitality  out  of  them  or  to  turn 
them  into  cowards  and  compromisers.  The  trag- 
edy of  a  civilization  that  dooms  the  tillers  of  the 
soil  to  a  dreary  monotony  of  hard  toil  with  little 
return,  or  charms  them  to  destruction  with  the 


266 


Lenox  Robinson 


I 


false  glow  of  city  culture  and  ease  1  Greater  still 
this  tragedy  in  a  country  like  Ireland,  its  people 
taxed  to  the  very  marrow  and  exploited  to  the 
verge  of  starvation,  leaving  the  young  geilera- 
tion  no  opening,  no  opportunity  in  life. 

It  is  inevitable  that  the  sons  and  daughters  of 
Ireland,  robust  in  body  and  spirit,  yearning  for 
things  better  and  bigger,  should  desert  her.  For 
as  Mary  says,  "  When  the  sun  sets  here.  It's  all  so 
dark  and  cold  and  dreary."  But  the  young  need 
light  and  warmth  —  and  these  are  not  in  the 
valley  of  ever-present  misery  and  want. 

"  Harvest "  is  an  expressive  picture  of  the  so- 
cial background  of  the  Irish  people,  a  background 
somber  and  unpromising  but  for  the  streak  of 
dawn  that  pierces  that  country's  dark  horizon  in 
the  form  of  the  inherent  and  irrepressible  fighting 
spirit  of  the  true  Irishman,  the  spirit  of  the  Fenian 
revolt  whose  fires  often  slumber  but  are  never  put 
out,  all  the  ravages  of  our  false  civilization  not- 
withstanding. 


T.  G.  MURRAY 


M. 


MAURICE  HARTE 


*«-m  i»-AURICE  HARTE"  portrays  the 
most  sinister  force  which  holds  the 
Irish  people  in  awe  —  that  heaviest 
of  all  bondage,  priestcraft. 
Michael  Harte,  his  wife  Ellen,  and  their  son 
Owen  are  bent  on  one  purpose;  to  make  a  priest 
of  their  youngest  child  Maurice.  The  mother  es- 
pecially has  no  other  ambition  in  life  than  to  see 
her  son  "  priested."  No  higher  ideal  to  most 
Catholic  mothers  than  to  consecrate  their  favorite 
son  to  the  glory  of  God. 

What  it  has  cost  the  Hartes  to  attain  their  am- 
bition and  hope  is  revealed  by  Ellen  Harte  in  the 
conversation  with  her  sister  and  later  with  her 
husband,  when  he  Informs  her  that  he  cannot  bor- 
row any  more  money  to  continue  the  boy  In  the 
seminary. 

Mrs.  Harte.  If  Michael  and  myself  have  our  son 
nearly  a  priest  this  day,  'tis  no  small  price  at  all  we  have 
paid  for  it.  .  .  .  Isn't  it  the  terrible  thing,  every  time  you 
look  through  that  window,  to  have  the  fear  in  your  heart 

267 


I 


268 


T.  G.  Murray 


, 


!i 

I 
I 


<* 


ii 


that  'tis  the  process-server  you'll  see  and  he  coming  up 
the  boreen? 

Old  Harte  impoverishes  himself  to  enable  his 
son  to  finish  his  studies.  He  has  borrowed  right 
and  left,  till  his  resources  are  now  entirely  ex- 
hausted. But  he  is  compelled  to  try  another 
loan. 

Michael.  He  .made  out  'twas  as  good  as  insulting  him 
making  such  a  small  payment,  and  the  money  that's  on  us 
to  be  so  heavy,  "  If  you  don't  wish  to  sign  that  note," 
says  he,  "  you  needn't.  It  don't  matter  at  all  to  me  one 
way  or  the  other,  for  before  the  next  Quarter  Sessions 
'tis  Andy  Driscoll,  the  process-server,  will  be  marching 
up  to  your  door."  So  what  could  I  do  but  sign?  Why, 
'twas  how  he  turned  on  me  in  a  red  passion.  "And 
isn't  it  a  scandal,  Michael  Harte,"  says  he,  "  for  the  like 
o'  you,  with  your  name  on  them  books  there  for  a  hun- 
dred and  fifty  pounds,  and  you  with  only  the  grass  of  nine 
or  ten  cows,  to  be  making  your  son  a  priest  ?  The  like  of 
it,"  says  he,  "  was  never  heard  of  before." 

Mrs.  Harte.  What  business  was  it  of  his,  I'd  like  to 
know?  Jealous  of  us!  There's  no  fear  any  of  his  s(Mis 
will  ever  be  anything  much ! 

Michael.  I  was  thinking  it  might  do  Maurice  swne 
harm  with  the  Bishop  if  it  came  out  on  the  papers  that 
we  were  up  before  the  judge  for  a  civil  bill. 

Mrs.  Harte,  .  .  .  'Tisn't  once  or  twice  I  told  you 
that  I  had  my  heart  set  on  hearing  Maurice  say  the  mar- 
riage words  over  his  own  brother. 


Maurice  Harte 


269 


Maurice  comes  home  for  the  summer  vacation, 
looking  pale  and  emaciated.  His  mother  ascribes 
his  condition  to  the  bad  city  air  and  hard  study  at 
school.  But  Maurice  suffers  from  a  different 
cause.  His  is  a  mental  struggle:  the  maddening 
struggle  of  doubt,  the  realization  that  he  has  lost 
his  faith,  that  he  has  no  vocation,  and  that  he  must 
give  up  his  divinity  studies.  He  knows  how  fa- 
natically bent  his  people  are  on  having  him  or- 
dained, and  he  is  tortured  by  the  grief  his  decision 
will  cause  his  parents.  His  heart  is  breaking  as  he 
at  last  determines  to  inform  them. 

He  reasons  and  pleads  with  his  parents  and  im- 
plores them  not  to  drive  him  back  to  college.  But 
they  cannot  understand.  They  remain  deaf  to  his 
arguments;  pitifully  they  beg  him  not  to  fail  them, 
not  to  disappoint  the  hope  of  a  lifetime.  When  it 
all  proves  of  no  avail,  they  finally  disclose  to 
Maurice  their  gnawing  secret :  the  farm  has  been 
mortgaged  and  many  debts  incurred  for  the  sake 
of  enabling  him  to  attain  to  the  priesthood. 

Michael.     Maurice,  would  you  break  our  hearts? 

Maurice.  Father,  would  you  have  your  son  live  a  life 
of  sacrilege?    Would  you,  Father?    Would  you? 

Mrs.  Harte.  That's  only  foolish  talk.  Aren't  you 
every  bit  as  good  as  the  next? 

Maurice.  I  may  be,  but  I  haven't  a  vocation.  .  .  . 
My  mind  is  finally  made  up. 

Mrs.  Harte,    Maurice,  listen  to  me  —  listen  to  me! 


270 


T,  G.  Murray 


«tv 


i< 


...  If  it  went  out  about  you  this  day,  isn't  it  destroyed 
forever  we'd  be?  Look!  The  story  wouldn't  be  east  in 
Macroom  when  we'd  have  the  bailiffs  walking  in  that 
door.  The  whole  world  knows  he  is  to  be  priest^d  next 
June,  and  only  for  the  great  respect  they  have  for  us 
through  the  means  o'  that,  'tisn't  James  McCarthy  alone, 
but  every  other  one  o*  them  would  come  down  on  us 
straight  for  their  money.  In  one  week  there  wouldn't 
be  a  cow  left  by  us,  nor  a  horse,  nor  a  lamb,  nor  anything 
at  all!  .  .  .  Look  at  them  books.  'Tis  about  time  you 
should  know  how  we  stand  here.  .  .  .  God  knows,  I 
wouldn't  be  hard  on  you  at  all,  but  look  at  the  great  load 
o'  money  that's  on  us  this  day,  and  mostly  all  on  your  ac- 
count. 

Maurice.  Mother,  don't  make  my  cross  harder  to 
bear. 

Mrs.  Harte.  An'  would  you  be  seeing  i  heavier  cross 
put  on  them  that  did  ail  that  mortal  man  and  woman 
could  do  for  you  ? 

Maurice.  Look !  I'll  wear  the  flesh  off  my  bones,  but 
in  pity  spare  me! 

Mrs.  Harte.  And  will  you  have  no  pity  at  all  on  us 
and  on  Owen  here,  that  have  slaved  for  you  all  our 
lives? 

Maurice.     Mother !     Mother ! 

Mrs.  Harte.    You'll  go  back?     'Tis  only  a  mistake? 

Maurice.    Great  God  of  Heaven!  .  .  .  you'll  kill  me. 

Michael.  You'll  go  back,  Maurice?  The  vocation 
will  come  to  you  in  time  with  the  help  of  God.  It  will, 
surely. 

Maurice.    Don't  ask  me!    Don't  ask  me! 


Maurice  Harte 


271 


Mrs.  Harte.  If  you  don't  how  can  I  ever  face  outside 
this  door  or  lift  my  head  again  ?  .  .  .  How  could  I  listen 
to  the  neighbors  making  pity  for  me,  and  many  a  one  o' 
them  only  glad  in  their  hearts?  How  could  I  ever  face 
again  into  town  o'  Macroom  ? 

Maurice.    Oh,  don't. 

Mrs.  Hartf.  1  tell  you,  Maurice,  I'd  rather  be  lying 
dead  a  thousand  times  in  the  graveyard  ovci  Killnamar- 
tyra  — 

Maurice.  Stop,  Mother,  stop!  I'll  —  I'll  go  back  — 
as  —  as  you  all  wish  it. 

Nine  months  later  there  is  general  rejoicing  at 
the  Hartes':  Maurice  has  passed  his  examina- 
tions with  flying  colors;  he  is  about  to  be  ordained, 
and  he  is  to  officiate  at  the  wedding  of  his  brother 
Owen  and  his  wealthy  bride. 

Ellen  Harte  plans  to  give  her  son  1  royal  wel- 
come. Great  preparations  are  on  foot  to  greet 
the  return  of  Maurice.  He  comes  back  —  not  in 
the  glory  and  triumph  expected  by  his  people,  but 
a  driveling  idiot.  His  mental  struggle,  the  agony 
of  whipping  himself  to  the  hated  task,  proved  too 
much  for  him,  and  Maurice  is  sacrificed  on  the 
altar  of  superstition  and  submission  to  paternal 
authority. 

In  the  whole  range  of  the  Irish  drama  "  Mau- 
rice Harte  "  is  the  most  Irish,  because  nowhere 
does  Catholicism  demand  so  many  victims  as  in 
that  unfortunate  land.     But  In  a  deeper  sense  the 


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272 


T.  G.  Murray 


play  is  of  that  social  importance  that  knows  no 
limit  of  race  or  creed. 

There  is  no  boundary  of  land  or  time  to  the  re- 
sistance of  the  human  mind  to  coercion ;  it  is  world- 
wide. Equally  so  is  the  rebellion  of  youth  against 
the  tyranny  of  parents.  But  above  all  does  this 
play  mirror  the  self-centered,  narrow,  ambitious 
love  of  the  mother,  so  disastrous  to  the  happiness 
and  peace  of  her  child.  For  it  is  Ellen  Harte, 
rather  than  th^  father,  who  forces  Maurice  back  to 
his  studies.  From  whatever  viewpoint,  however, 
"Maurice  Harte"  be  considered,  it  carries  a 
dramatically  powerful  message  of  wide  social  sig- 
nificance. 


THE  RUSSIAN  DRAMA 

PEOPLE  outside  of  Russia,  especially 
Anglo-Saxons,  have  one  great  objection 
to  the  Russian  drama:  it  is  too  sad,  too 
gloomy.  It  is  often  asked,  "  Why  :j  the 
Russian  drama  so  pessimistic?  "  The  answer  is: 
the  Russian  drama,  like  all  Russian  culture,  has 
been  conceived  in  the  sorrow  of  the  people;  it  was 
born  in  their  woe  and  struggle.  Anything  thus 
conceived  cannot  be  very  joyous  or  amusing. 

It  is  no  exaggeration  to  say  that  in  no  other 
country  are  the  creative  artists  so  interwoven,  so 
much  at  one  with  the  people.  This  is  not  only 
true  of  men  like  Turgenev,  Tolstoy  and  the  dram- 
atists of  modern  times.  It  applies  also  to  Gogol, 
who  in  "The  Inspector"  and  "Dead  Souls" 
spoke  in  behalf  of  the  people,  appealing  to  the 
conscience  of  Russia.  The  same  is  true  of  Dos- 
toyevsky,  of  the  poets  Nekrassov,  Nadson,  and 
others.  In  fact,  all  the  great  Russian  artists  have 
gone  to  the  people  for  their  inspiration,  as  to  the 
source  of  all  life.  That  explains  the  depth  and 
the  humanity  of  Russian  literature. 


274 


The  Russian  Drama 


The  modern  drama  naturally  suggests  Henrik 
Ibsen  as  its  pioneer.  But  prior  to  him,  Gogol 
utilized  the  drama  as  a  vehicl-  for  popularizing  the 
social  issues  of  his  time.  Ln  "  The  Inspector," 
(Revizor)  he  portrays  the  corruption,  graft  and 
extortion  rampant  in  the  governmental  depart- 
ments. If  we  were  to  Anglicize  the  names  of  the 
characters  in  "  The  Inspector,"  and  forget  for  a 
moment  that  it  was  a  Russian  who  wrote  the  play, 
the  criticism  contained  therein  would  apply  with 
similar  force  to  present-day  America,  and  to  every 
other  modern  country.  Gogol  touched'  the  deep- 
est sores  of  social  magnitude  and  marked  the  be- 
ginning of  the  realistic  drama  in  Russia. 

However,  it  is  not  within  the  scope  of  this  work 
to  discuss  the  drama  of  Gogol's  era.  I  shall  be- 
gm  with  Tolstoy,  because  he  is  closer  to  our  own 
generation,  and  voices  more  definitely  the  social 
significance  of  the  modern  drama. 


TOLSTOY 


WHEN  Leo  Tolstoy  died,  the  represen- 
tatives of  the  Church  proclaimed  him 
as  their  own.  "  He  was  with  us," 
they  said.  It  reminds  one  of  the 
Russian  fable  about  the  fly  and  the  ox.  The  fly 
was  lazily  resting  on  the  horn  of  the  ox  while  he 
plowed  the  field,  but  when  the  ox  returned  home 
exhausted  with  toil,  the  fly  bragged,  "  }Ve  have 
been  plowing."  The  spokesmen  of  the  Church 
are,  in  relation  to  Tolstoy,  in  the  same  position. 
It  is  true  that  Tolstoy  based  his  conception  of  hu- 
man relationships  on  a  new  interpretation  of  the 
Gospels.  But  he  was  as  far  removed  from  pres- 
ent-day Christianity  as  Jesus  was  alien  to  the  insti- 
tutional religion  of  his  time. 

Tolstoy  was  the  last  true  Christian,  and  as  such 
he  undermined  the  stronghold  of  the  Church  with 
all  its  pernicious  power  of  darkness,  with  all  its 
injustice  and  cruelty. 

For  this  he  was  persecuted  by  the  Holy  Synod 
and  excommunicated  from  the  Church;  for  this 
he  was  feared  by  the  Tsar  and  his  henchmen;  for 
this  his  works  have  been  condemned  and  pro- 
hibited. 


276 


Tolstoy 


1 


The  only  reason  Tolstoy  himself  escaped  the 
fate  of  other  great  Russians  was  that  he  was 
mightier  than  the  Church,  mightier  than  the  ducal 
clique,  mightier  even  than  the  Tsar.  He  was  the 
powerful  conscience  of  Russia  exposing  her 
crimes  and  evils  before  the  civilized  world. 

How  deeply  Tolstoy  felt  the  grave  problems 
of  his  time,  how  closely  related  he  was  to  the  peo- 
pie,  he  demonstrated  in  various  works,  but  in 
none  so  strikingly  as  in  "  The  Power  of  Dark- 
ness." * 

THE  POWER  OF  DARKNESS 

"  T"^.  Power  of  Darkness  "  is  the  tragedy  of 
soxdid  misery  and  dense  ignorance.  It  deals  with 
a  group  of  peasants  steeped  in  poverty  and  utter 
darkness.  This  appalling  condition,  especially  in 
relation  to  the  women  folk,  is  expressed  by  one 
of  the  characters  in  the  play: 

Mitrich.  There  are  millions  of  you  women  and  girls, 
but  you  are  all  like  the  beasts  of  the  forest.  Just  as  one 
has  been  born,  so  she  dies.  She  has  neither  seen  or  heard 
anything.  A  man  will  learn  something;  if  nowhere  else, 
at  least  in  the  inn,  or  by  some  chance,  in  prison,  or  in  the 
army,  as  I  have.  But  what  about  a  woman .'  She  does 
not  know  a  thirg  about  God,—  nay,  she  does  not  know 
one  day  from  another.  They  creep  about  like  blind  pups, 
and  stick  their  heads  into  the  manure. 


The  Power  of  Darkness 


277 


Peter,  a  rich  peasant,  is  in  a  dying  condition. 
Yet  he  clings  to  his  money  and  slave-drives  his 
young  wife,  An'tsya,  his  two  daughters  by  a  first 
marriage,  and  his  peasant  servant  Nikita.  He 
will  not  allow  them  any  rest  from  their  toil,  for 
the  greed  of  money  is  in  his  blood  and  the  fear 
of  death  in  his  bones.  Anisya  hates  her  husband: 
he  forces  her  to  drudge,  and  he  is  old  and  ill.  She 
loves  Nikita.  The  latter,  young  and  irresponsi- 
ble, cannot  resist  women,  who  are  his  main  weak- 
ness and  final  undoing.  Before  he  came  to  old 
Peter's  farm,  he  had  wronged  an  orphan  girl. 
When  she  becomes  pregnant,  she  appeals  to  N't- 
kita's  father,  Akim,  a  simple  and  honest  peasant. 
He  urges  his  son  to  marry  the  girl,  because  "  it  is 
a  sin  to  wrong  an  orphan.  Look  out,  Nikita! 
A  tear  of  offense  does  not  flow  past,  but  upon  a 
man's  head.  Look  out,  or  the  same  will  happen 
with  you." 

Akim's  kindness  and  simplicity  are  opposed  by 
the  viciousness  and  greed  of  his  wife  Matrena. 
Nikita  remains  on  the  farm,  and  Anisya,  urged 
and  influenced  by  his  mother,  poisons  old  Peter 
and  steals  his  money. 

When  her  husband  dies,  Anisya  marries  Nikita 
and  turns  the  money  over  to  him.  Nikita  be- 
comes the  head  of  the  house,  and  soon  proves  him- 
self a  rake  and  a  tyrant.     Idleness  and  affluence 


( 


%l; 


K. 


278 


!i! 


II! 

i  h 


Tolstoy 


undermine  whatever  good  Is  latent  in  him. 
Money,  the  destroyer  of  souls,  together  with  the 
consciousness  that  he  has  been  indirectly  a  party 
to  Amsy(^s  crime,  turn  Nikita's  love  for  the 
woman  into  bitter  hatred.  He  takes  for  his  mis- 
tress  Akulina,  Peter's  oldest  daughter,  a  girl  of  six- 
teen,  deaf  and  silly,  and  forces  Anisya  to  serve 
them.  She  had  strength  to  resist  her  old  husband, 
but  her  love  for  Nikita  has  made  her  weak. 
"  The  moment  I  see  him  my  heart  sc  ftens.  I  have 
no  courage  against  him." 

Old  Akim  comes  to  ask  for  a  little  money  from 
his  newly  rich  son.  He  quickly  senses  the  swamp 
of  corruption  and  vice  into  which  Nikita  has  sunk 
He  tries  to  save  him,  to  bring  him  back  to  himself, 
to  arouse  the  better  side  of  his  nature.  But  he 
fails. 

The  ways  of  life  are  too  evil  for  Akim.  He 
leaves,  refusing  even  the  money  he  needs  so  badly 
to  purchase  a  horse. 

Akim.  One  sin  holds  on  to  another  and  pulls  you 
along.  Nikita,  you  are  stuck  in  sins.  You  are  stuck,  I 
see,  in  sins.  You  are  stuck  fast,  so  to  speak.  I  have 
heard  that  nowadays  they  pull  fathers'  beards,  so  to  speak, 
—  but  this  leads  only  to  ruin,  to  ruin,  so  to  speak.  .  .  . 
There  is  your  money.  I  will  go  and  beg,  so  to  speak, 
but  I  will  not,  so  to  speak,  take  the  money.  ...  Let  me 
go!  I  will  not  stay!  I  would  rather  sleep  near  the 
fence  than  in  your  nastiness. 


hi 
'  if 


The  Power  of  Darkness 


279 


The  type  of  Jkim  is  most  vividly  characterized 
by  Tolstoy  in  the  talk  between  the  old  peasant  and 
the  new  help  on  the  farm. 

Mitrich.  Let  us  suppose,  for  example,  you  have 
money,  and  I,  for  example,  have  my  land  lying  fallow; 
it  is  spring,  and  I  have  no  s.ed;  or  I  have  to  pay  the 
taxes.  So  I  come  to  you,  and  say:  "  Akim,  give  me  ten 
roubles!  I  will  have  the  harvest  in  by  St.  Mary's  Inter- 
cession and  then  I  will  give  it  back  to  you,  with  a  tithe 
for  the  accommodation."  You,  for  example,  see  that  I 
can  be  flayed,  having  a  horse  or  a  cow,  so  you  say: 
"  Give  me  two  or  three  roubles  for  the  accommodation." 
The  noose  is  around  my  neck,  and  I  cannot  get  along 
without  it.  "  Very  well,"  saj'S  I,  "  I  will  take  the  ten 
roubles."  In  the  fall  I  sell  some  things,  and  I  bring  you 
the  money,  and  you  skin  me  in  addition  for  three  rou- 
bles. 

Akim.  But  this  is,  so  to  speak,  a  wrong  done  to  a  peas- 
ant.    If  one  forgets  God,  so  to  speak,  it  is  not  good. 

Mitrich,  Wait  a  minute!  So  remember  what  you 
have  done:  you  have  fleeced  me,  so  to  speak,  and  Anisya, 
for  example  ^as  some  money  which  is  lying  idle.  She 
has  no  place  to  put  it  in  and,  being  a  woman,  does  not 
know  what  to  do  with  it.  So  she  comes  to  you :  "  Can't 
I,"  says  she,  "  make  some  use  of  my  money?  "  "  Yes,  you 
can,"  you  say.  And  so  you  wait.  Next  summer  I  come 
to  you  once  more.  "  Give  me  another  ten  roubles,"  says 
I,  "  and  I  will  pay  you  for  the  accommodation."  So  you 
watch  me  to  see  whether  my  hide  has  not  been  turned 
yet,  whether  I  can  be  flayed  again,  and  if  I  can,  you  give 


28o 


Tolstoy 


me  Anisya's  money.  But  if  I  have  not  a  blessed  thing, 
and  nothing  to  cat,  you  make  your  calculations,  seeing 
that  I  cannot  be  skinned,  and  you  say:  "God  be  with 
you,  ny  brother!  "  and  you  look  out  for  another  man  to 
whom  to  give  Anisya's  money,  and  whom  you  can  flay. 
Now  this  is  called  a  bank.  So  it  keeps  going  around. 
It  is  a  very  clever  thing,  my  friend. 

A  kirn.  What  is  this?  This  is  a  nastiness,  so  to  speak. 
If  a  peasj/nt,  so  to  speak,  were  to  do  it,  the  peasants  iould 
regard  it  as  a  sin,  so  to  speak.  This  is  not  according  to 
the  Law,  not  s-rcording  to  the  Law,  sc  to  speak.  It  is 
bad.  Tow  cah  the  learned  men,  so  to  speak —  ...  As 
I  look  at  it,  so  to  speak,  there  is  trouble  without  money, 
so  to  speak,  and  with  money  the  trouble  is  double,  so  to 
speak.  God  has  commanded  to  woik.  But  you  put  the 
money  in  the  bank,  so  to  speak,  and  lie  down  to  sleep, 
and  the  money  will  feed  you,  so  to  speak,  while  you  arc 
lying.  This  is  bad, —  not  according  to  the  Law,  so  to 
speak. 

Mitrich.  Not  according  to  the  Law?  The  *  aw  does 
not  trouble  people  nowadays,  my  friend.  All  thty  think 
about  Is  how  to  clean  out  a  fellow.     That's  what! 

As  long  as  Akulina*s  condition  is  not  noticeable, 
the  relation  of  Nikita  with  his  dead  master's 
daughter  remains  hidden  from  the  neighbors. 
But  the  time  comes  when  she  is  to  give  birth  to  a 
child.  It  is  then  that  Anisya  becomes  mistress  of 
the  situation  again.  Her  hatred  for  Akulina,  her 
outraged  love  for  Nikita  and  the  evil  spirit  of  Ni- 
kita's  mother  all  combine  to  turn  her  into  a  fiend. 


The  Power  of  Darkness 


281 


Akulina  is  driven  to  the  barn,  where  her  terrible 
labor  pains  are  stifled  by  the  dread  of  her  stc^ 
mother.  'Vhrn  the  innocent  victim  is  born,  Ni- 
kita's  vicious  mother  and  An'isya  persuade  him 
that  the  child  is  dead  and  force  him  to  bury  it  in 
the  cellar. 

While  Nikita  is  digging  the  grave,  he  discovers 
the  deception.  The  child  is  alive  1  The  terrible 
shock  unnerves  the  man,  and  in  temporary  madness 
he  presses  a  board  over  the  little  body  till  its  bones 
crunch.  Superstition,  horror  and  the  perfidy  of 
the  women  drive  Nikita  to  drink  in  an  attempt  to 
drown  the  baby's  cries  constantly  ringing  in  his 
ears. 

The  last  act  deals  with  Akulina* s  wedding  to  the 
son  of  a  neighbor.  She  is  forced  into  the  mar- 
riage because  of  her  misfortune.  The  peasants 
all  gather  for  the  occasion,  but  Nikita  is  missing: 
he  roams  the  place  haunted  by  the  horrible  phan- 
tom of  his  murdered  child.  He  attempts  to  hang 
himself  but  fails,  and  finally  decides  to  go  before 
the  entire  assembly  to  confess  his  crimes. 

Nikita.    Father,  listen  to  me!    First  0^  all,  Marina, 

look  at  me!     I  am  guilty  toward  you:  I  had  promised 

to  marry  you,  and  I  seduc.-d  you.  I  deceived  you  and 
abandoned  you;  forgive  me  for  Christ's  sake! 

Matr  la.  Oh,  on,  he  is  bewitched.  What  is  the  mat- 
ter with  him?  He  has  the  evil  eye  upon  him.  Get  up 
and  stop  talkin,  nonsense! 


282 


Tolstoy 


C 


ii 


:ii 


f^ikita.     I  killed  your  father,  <»nd  I,  dog,  l.avc  ruine( 
his  daughter.     I   had   the  power  over  her,  and  I  kiUec 

also   her   baby Father   dear!     Forgive   me.   sinfu 

man!  You  told  me,  when  I  first  started  on  this  lite  ol 
debauch:  "  When  the  claw  is  caught,  the  whole  bird  h 
lost.  But,  I,  dog,  did  not  pay  any  attention  io  you,  and 
so  everything  turned  out  as  you  said.  Forgive  me,  foi 
Christ's  sake. 

The  ••  Power  of  Darkness  "  is  a  terrible  picture 
of  poverty,  ignorance  and  superstition.     To  write 
such  a  work  it  is  not  sufficient  to  be  a  creative  art- 
ist: it  requires  a  deeply  sympathetic  human  soul. 
1  olstoy  possessed  both.     He  understood  that  the 
tragedy  of  the  peasants'  life  is  due  not  to  any  in- 
herent  viciousness  but  to  the  power  of  darkness 
which  permeates  their  existence  from  the  cradle 
to    the   grave.     Something   heavy   is   oppressing 
them  —  in  the  words  of  Anisya  —  weighing  them 
down,  something  that  saps  all  humanity  out  of 
them  and  drives  them    .10  the  depths. 

"  The  Power  of  Darkness  "  is  a  social  picture 
at  once  appalling  and  gripping. 


ANTON  TCHEKHOF 


I 


WHEN  Anton  Tchekhof  first  came  t'- 
•"he  fore,  no  less  an  authority  thr  . 
Tolstoy  said:  "  Russia  has  given 
birth  to  another  Tury;cnev."  The 
estimate  was  not  overdrawn.  Tchckhof  was  in- 
deed a  modern  Turgenev.  Perhaps  not  as  uni- 
versal, because  Turgenev,  having  lived  in  western 
Furope,  in  close  contact  with  conditions  outside  of 
Russia,  dealt  with  more  variegated  aspects  of  life. 
But  as  a  creative  artist  Tchekhof  is  fitted  to  take 
his  place  with  Turgenev. 

Tchekhof  is  preeminently  the  -naster  of  short 
stories.  Within  the  limits  of  a  ft  jages  he  paints 
the  drama  of  human  life  with  its  manifold  tragic 
and  comic  colors,  in  its  most  intimate  reflex  upon 
the  characters  who  pass  through  the  panorama. 
He  has  been  called  a  pessimist.  As  if  one  could 
miss  the  sun  without  feeling  the  torture  of  utter 
darkness! 

Tchekhof  wrote  during  the  gloomiest  period  of 
Russian  life,  at  a  time  when  the  reaction  had 
drowned  the  revolution  in  the  blood  of  the  young 
generation, —  when  the  Tsar  had  choked  the  very 

a83 


284 


Anton  Tchekhof 


breath  out  of  young  Russia.  The  intellectuals 
were  deprived  of  every  outlet:  all  the  social  chan- 
nels were  closed  to  them,  and  they  found  them- 
selves without  hope  or  faith,  not  having  yet  learned 
to  make  common  cause  with  the  people. 

Tchekhof  could  not  escape  the  atmosphere 
which  darkened  the  horizon  of  almost  the  whole  of 
Russia.  It  was  because  he  so  intensely  felt  its 
oppressive  weight  that  he  longed  for  air,  for  light, 
for  new  and  vital  ideas.  To  awaken  the  same 
yearning  and  faith  in  others,  he  had  to  picture  life 
as  it  was,  in  all  its  wretchedness  and  horror. 

This  he  did  in  "  The  Seagull,"  while  in  "  The 
Cherry  Orchard  "  he  holds  out  the  hope  of  a  new 
and  brighter  day. 


K 


"\\ 


THE  SEAGULL 

In  "  The  Seagull  "  the  young  artist,  Constan- 
tine  Treplef,  seeks  new  forms,  new  modes  of  ex- 
pression. He  is  tired  of  the  old  academic  ways, 
the  beaten  track;  he  is  disgusted  with  the  endless 
imitative  methods,  no  one  apparently  capable  of  an 
original  thought. 

Constantine  has  written  a  play ;  the  principal  part 
is  to  be  acted  by  Nina,  a  beautiful  girl  with  whom 
Constantine  is  in  love.  He  arranges  the  first  per- 
formance to  take  place  on  the  occasion  of  his 
mother's  vacation  in  the  country. 


The  Seagull 


285 


She  herself  —  known  as  Mme.  Arcadina  —  is  a 
famous  actress  of  the  old  school.  She  knows  how 
to  show  off  her  charms  to  advantage,  to  parade  her 
beautiful  gowns,  to  faint  and  die  gracefully  before 
the  footlights ;  but  she  does  not  know  how  to  live 
her  part  on  the  stage.  Mme.  Arcad'tna  is  the  type 
of  artist  who  lacks  all  conception  of  the  relation 
between  art  and  life.  Barren  of  vision  and  empty 
of  heart,  her  only  criterion  is  public  approval  and 
material  success.  Needless  to  say,  she  cannot  un- 
derstand her  son.  She  considers  him  decadent, 
a  foolish  rebel  who  wants  to  undermine  the  settled 
canons  of  dramatic  art.  Constantine  sums  up  his 
mother's  personality  in  the  following  manner : 

Treptef.  She  is  a  psychological  curiosity,  is  my  mother. 
A  clever  and  gifted  woman,  who  can  cry  over  a  novel, 
will  reel  you  off  all  Nekrassov's  poems  by  heart,  and  is  the 
perfection  of  a  sick  nurse ;  but  venture  to  praise  Eleonora 
Duse  before  her!  Oho!  ho!  You  must  praise  nobody 
but  her,  write  about  her,  shout  about  her,  and  go  into 
ecstasies  over  her  wonderful  performance  in  La  Dame  aux 
Camelias,  or  The  Fumes  of  Life;  but  as  she  cannot  have 
these  intoxicating  pleasures  down  here  in  the  country, 
she's  bored  and  gets  spiteful.  .  .  .  She  loves  the  stage; 
she  thinks  that  she  is  advancing  the  cause  of  humanity 
and  her  sacred  art;  but  I  regard  the  stage  of  to-day  as 
mere  routine  and  prejudice.  When  the  curtain  goes  up 
and  the  gifted  beings,  the  high  priests  of  the  sacred  art, 
appear  by  electric  light,  in  a  room  with  three  sides  to  it, 
representing  how  people  eat,  drink,  love,  walk  and  wear 


ilih 


286 


Anton  Tchekhof 


their  jackets;  when  they  strive  to  squeeze  out  a  moral 
from  the  flat,  vulgar  pictures  and  the  flat,  vulgar  phrases, 
a  little  tiny  moral,  easy  to  comprehend  and  handy  for 
home  consumption,  when  in  a  thousand  variations  they 
offer  me  always  the  same  thing  over  and  over  and  over 
again  —  then  I  take  to  my  heels  and  run,  as  Maupassant 
ran  from  the  Eiffel  Tower,  which  crushed  his  brain  by  its 
overwhelming  vulgarity.  .  .  .  We  must  have  new  for- 
mulje.  That's  what  we  want.  And  if  there  are  none, 
then  it's  better  to  have  nothing  at  all. 

With  Mme.  Arcadina  is  her  lover,  Trigorin,  a 
successful*  writer.  When  he  began  his  literary 
career,  he  possessed  originality  and  strength.  But 
gradually  writing  became  a  habit:  the  publishers 
constantly  demand  new  books,  and  he  supplies 
them. 

Oh,  the  slavery  of  being  an  "  arrived  "  artist, 
forging  new  chains  for  oneself  with  every  **  best 
seller"!  Such  is  the.  position  cf  Trigorin:  he 
hates  his  work  as  the  worst  drudgery.  Exhausted 
of  ideas,  all  life  and  human  relations  serve  him 
only  as  material  for  copy. 

Nina,  innocent  of  the  ways  of  the  world  and 
saturated  with  the  false  romanticism  of  Trigorin' s 
works,  does  not  see  the  man  but  the  celebrated  art- 
ist.  She  is  carried  away  by  his  fame  and  stirred 
by  his  presence;  an  infatuation  with  him  quickly 
replaces  her  affection  for  Constsntine.     To  her 


The  Seagull 


287 


11m 


Trigorin  embodies  her  dream  of  a  brilliant  and  in- 
teresting life. 

Nina.  How  I  envy  you,  if  you  but  knew  it!  How 
different  are  the  lots  of  different  people!  Some  can 
hardly  drag  on  their  tedious,  insignificant  existence;  they 
are  all  alike,  all  miserable;  others,  like  you,  for  instance 
—  you  are  one  in  a  million  —  are  blessed  with  a  brilliant, 
interesting  life,  all  full  of  meaning.  .  .  .  You  are  happy. 
.  .  .  What  a  delightful  life  yours  is! 

Trigorin.  What  is  there  so  fine  about  it?  Day  and 
night  I  am  obsessed  by  the  same  persistent  thought;  I 
must  write,  I  must  write,  I  must  write.  .  .  .  No  sooner 
have  I  finished  one  story  than  I  am  somehow  compelled  to 
write  another,  then  a  third,  and  after  the  third  a  fourth. 
...  I  have  no  rest  for  myself;  I  feel  that  I  am  devour- 
ing my  own  life.  .  .  .  I've  never  satisfied  myself.  .  .  . 
I  have  the  feeling  for  nature;  it  wakes  a  passion  in  me, 
an  irresistible  desire  to  write.  But  I  am  something  more 
than  a  landscape  painter;  I'm  a  citizen  as  well;  I  love  my 
country,  I  love  the  people;  I  feel  that  if  I  am  a  writer 
I  am  bound  to  speak  of  the  people,  of  its  suffering,  of  its 
future,  to  speak  of  science,  of  the  rights  of  man,  etc.,  etc. ; 
and  I  speak  about  it  all,  volubly,  and  am  attacked  angrily 
in  return  by  everyone ;  I  dart  from  side  to  side  like  a  fox 
run  down  by  hounds;  I  see  that  life  and  science  fly  farther 
and  farther  ahead  of  me,  and  I  fall  farther  and  farther 
behind,  like  the  countryman  running  after  the  train ;  and 
in  the  end  I  feel  that  the  only  thing  I  can  write  of  is  the 
landscape,  and  in  everything  else  I  am  untrue  to  life, 
false  to  the  very  marrow  of  my  bones. 


:  : 


I  n  .1 


III 


i    u 


p 

III 

m 


288 


Anton  Tchekhof 


Constantine  realizes  that  Nina  is  slipping  away 
from  him.  The  situation  is  aggravated  by  the 
constant  friction  with  his  mother  and  his  despair 
at  the  lack  of  encouragement  for  his  art.  In  a  fit 
of  despondency  he  attempts  suicide,  but  wi^ihout 
success.  His  mother,  although  nursing 'him  back 
to  health,  is  infuriated  at  her  son's  "  foolishness," 
his  inability  to  adapt  himself  to  conditions,  his  im- 
practical ideas.  She  decides  to  leave,  accompanied 
by  Trigorin.  On  the  day  of  their  departure  Nina 
and  Trigorin  meet  once  more.  The  girl  tells  him 
of  her  ambition  to  become  an  actress,  and,  encour- 
aged by  him,  follows  him  to  the  city. 

Two  years  later  Mme.  Arcadina,  still  full  of  her 
idle  triumphs,  returns  to  her  estate.  Trigorin  is 
again  with  her  still  haunted  by  the  need  of  copy. 

Constantine  has  in  the  interim  matured  consider- 
ably. Although  he  has  made  himself  heard  as  a 
writer,  he  nevertheless  feels  that  life  to-day  has  no 
place  for  such  as  he:  that  sincerity  in  art  is  not 
wanted.  His  mother  is  with  him,  but  she  only 
serves  to  emphasize  the  flatness  of  his  surround- 
ings. He  loves  her,  but  her  ways  jar  him  and 
drive  him  into  seclusion. 

Nina,  too,  has  returned  to  her  native  place, 
broken  in  body  and  spirit  Partly  because  of  the 
memory  of  her  past  aflFection  for  Constantine,  and 
mainly  because  she  learns  of  Trigorin' s  presence, 
she  is  drawn  to  the  place  where  two  years  before 


Ml^ 


The  Seagull 


289 


she  had  dreamed  of  the  beauty  of  an  artistic  career. 
The  cruel  struggle  for  recognition,  the  bitter  dis- 
appointment in  her  relation  with  Trigorin,  the  care 
of  a  child  and  poor  health  have  combined  to  change 
the  romantic  child  into  a  sad  woman. 

Constantine  still  loves  her.  He  pleads  with  her 
to  go  away  with  him,  to  begin  a  new  life.  But  it 
is  too  late.  The  lure  of  the  footlights  is  beckon- 
ing to  Nina;  she  returns  to  the  stage.  Constan- 
fine,  unable  to  stand  the  lonelinrss  of  his  life  and 
the  mercenary  demands  upon  his  art,  kills  himself. 

To  the  Anglo-Saxon  mind  such  an  ending  is  pes- 
simism,—  defeat.  Often,  however,  apparent  de- 
feat is  5n  reality  the  truest  success.  For  is  not  suc- 
cess, as  commonly  understood,  but  too  frequently 
bought  at  the  expense  of  character  and  idealism? 

'*  The  Seagull  "  is  not  defeat.  As  long  as  there 
is  still  such  material  in  society  as  the  Constantines 
—  men  and  women  who  would  rather  die  than 
compromise  with  the  sordidness  of  life  —  there  is 
hope  for  humanity.  If  the  Constantines  perish,  it 
is  the  social  fault, —  our  indifference  to,  and  lack 
of  appreciation  oi,  real  values  that  alone  ad- 
vance the  fuller  and  more  complete  life  of  the  race. 


290 


Anton  Tchekhof 


wv 


THE  CHERRY  ORCHARD 

"  The  Cherry  Orchard  "  is  Tchekhofs  pro- 
phetic song.  In  this  play  he  depicts  three  stages 
of  social  development  and  their  reflex  in  literature. 

Mme.  Raneisky,  the  owner  of  the  cherry  or- 
chard, an  estate  celebrated  far  and  wide  foi  its 
beauty  and  historic  traditions,  is  deeply  attached  to 
the  family  place.  She  loves  it  for  its  romanticism : 
nightingales  sing  in  the  orchard,  accompanying  the 
wooing  of  lovers.  She  is  devoted  to  it  because  of 
the  memory  of  her  ancestors  and  because  of  the 
many  tender  ties  which  bind  her  to  the  orchard. 
The  same  feeling  and  reverence  is  entertained  by 
her  brother  Leonid  Gayef.  They  are  expressed  in 
the  Ode  to  an  Old  Family  Cupboard: 

Gayef.  Beloved  and  venerable  cupboard;  honor  and 
glory  to  your  existence,  which  for  more  than  a  hundred 
years  has  been  directed  to  the  noble  ideals  of  justice  and 
virtue.  Your  silent  summons  to  profitable  labor  has  never 
weakened  in  all  these  hundred  years.  You  have  upheld 
the  courage  of  succeeding  generations  of  human  kind; 
you  have  upheld  faith  in  a  better  future  and  cherished  in 
us  ideals  of  goodness  and  social  consciousness. 

But  the  social  consciousness  of  Gayef  and  of  his 
sister  is  of  a  paternal  nature :  the  attitude  of  the 
aristocraq'  toward  Its  serfs.  It  is  a  paternalism 
that  takes  no  account  of  the  freedom  and  happiness 
of  the  people, —  the  romanticism  of  a  dying  class. 


I 


The  Cherry  Orchard 


291 


Mme.  Ranevsky  is  impoverished.  The  cherry 
orchard  is  heavily  mortgaged  and  as  romance  and 
sentiment  cannot  liquidate  debts,  the  beautiful  es- 
tate falls  into  the  cruel  hands  of  commercialism. 

The  merchant  Yermolai  Lopakh'm  buys  the 
place.  He  is  in  ecstasy  over  his  newly  acquired 
possession.  He  the  owner  —  he  who  had  risen 
from  the  serfs  of  the  former  master  of  the  or- 
chard! 

Lopakhin.  Just  think  of  it!  The  cherry  orchard  is 
mine!  Mine!  Tell  me  that  I'm  drunk ;  tell  me  that  I'm 
off  my  head;  tell  me  that  it's  all  a  dream!  ...  If  only 
my  father  and  my  grandfather  could  rise  from  their 
graves  and  see  the  whole  affair,  how  their  Yermolai,  their 
flogged  and  ignorant  Yermolai,  who  used  to  run  about 
barcrooted  in  the  winter,  how  this  same  Yermolai  had 
bought  a  property  that  hasn't  its  equal  for  beauty  any- 
where in  the  whole  world!  I  have  bought  the  property 
where  my  father  and  graridfather  were  slaves,  where  they 
weren't  even  allowed  into  the  kitchen. 

A  new  epoch  begins  in  the  cherry  orchard.  On 
the  ruins  of  romanticism  and  aristocratic  ease  tScrc 
rises  commercialism,  its  iron  hand  yoking  n;  '.re, 
devastating  her  beauty,  and  robbing  her  ot  all 
radiance. 

With  the  greed  of  rich  returns,  Lopakhin  cries, 
*'  Lay  the  ax  to  the  cherry  orchard,  come  and  see 
the  trees  fall  down!  We'll  fill  the  place  with 
villas." 


292 


Anton  Tchekhof 


III 


Hi 


I 


Materialism  reigns  supreme;  it  lords  the  or- 
chard with  mighty  hand,  and  in  the  frenzy  of  its 
triumph  believes  itself  in  control  of  the  bodies  and 
souls  of  men.  But  in  the  madness  of  conquest  it 
has  discounted  a  stubborn  obstacle  —  the  spirit  of 
idealism.  It  is  ymbolized  in  Peter  Troj>himof, 
"  the  perpetual  student,"  and  /inya,  the  young 
daughter  of  Mme.  Ranevsky.  The  "  wonderful 
achievements  *'  of  the  materir'istic  age  do  not  en- 
thuse them;  they  have  emancipated  themselves 
from  the  Lopakhin  idol  as  well  as  from  their  aristo- 
cratic traditions. 

Anya.  Why  i-  it  that  I  no  longer  love  the  cherry 
orchard  as  I  did  ?  I  used  to  love  it  so  tenderly ;  I  thought 
there  was  no  better  place  on  earth  than  our  garden. 

Trophimof.  All  Russia  is  our  garden.  The  earth  is 
great  and  beautiful ;  it  is  full  of  wonderful  places.  Think, 
Anya,  your  grandfather,  your  great-grandfather  and  all 
your  ancestors  were  serf-Owners,  owners  of  living  souls. 
Do  not  human  spirits  look  out  at  you  from  every  tree  in 
the  orchard,  from  every  leaf  and  every  stem  ?  Do  you  not 
hear  human  voices?  .  .  .  Oh!  it  is  terrible.  Your  or- 
chard frightens  me.  When  I  walk  through  it  in  the 
evening  or  at  night,  the  rugged  bark  on  the  trees  glows 
with  a  dim  light,  and  the  cherry  trees  seem  to  see  all  thai 
happened  a  hundred  and  two  hundred  years  ago  in  pain- 
ful and  op*-  essive  dreams.  Well,  well,  we  have  fallen 
at  least  two  hundred  years  beyond  the  times.  We  have 
achieved  nothing  at  all  as  yet ;  we  have  not  made  up  oui 
minds  how  we  stand  with  the  past ;  we  only  philosophize, 


In 


The  Cherry  Orchard 


293 


complain  of  boredom,  or  drtnk  vodka.  It  is  so  plain  that, 
before  we  can  live  in  the  present,  we  must  first  redeem  the 
past,  and  have  do».e  with  it. 

Anya.  The  house  we  live  in  has  long  since  ceased  to 
be  our  house ;  I  shall  go  away. 

Trophiinof.  If  you  have  the  household  keys,  throw 
them  in  the  well  and  go  away.  Be  free,  be  free  as  the 
wind.  ...  I  am  hungry  as  the  winter ;  I  am  sick,  anxious, 
poor  as  a  beggar.  Fate  has  tossed  me  hither  and  thither; 
I  have  been  everywhere,  everywhere.  But  everywhere  I 
have  been,  every  minute,  day  and  night,  my  soul  has  been 
full  of  mysterious  anticipations.  I  fp.l  the  approach  of 
happiness,  Anya;  I  see  it  coTiing  ...  it  is  coming  to- 
wards us,  nearer  and  nearer;  1.  can  hear  the  sound  of  its 
footsteps.  .  .  .  And  if  we  do  not  sec  it,  if  we  do  not 
know  it,  what  does  it  matter?     Others  will  see  it. 

The  new  generation,  on  the  threshold  of  the 
new  epoch,  hears  the  approaching  footsteps  of  the 
Future.  And  even  if  the  Anyas  and  Trophimofs 
of  to-day  will  not  see  it,  others  will. 

It  was  not  given  to  Anton  Tchekhof  to  see  it 
with  his  bodily  eyes.  But  his  prophetic  vision  be- 
held the  coming  of  the  New  Day,  and  with  power- 
ful pen  he  proclaimed  it,  that  others  might  see  it. 
Far  from  being  a  pessimist,  as  charged  by  unintelli- 
gent critics,  his  faith  was  strong  in  the  possibilities 
of  liberty. 

This  is  the  inspiring  message  of  *'  The  Cherry 
Orchard." 


MAXIM  GORKI 


A  NIGHT'S  LODGING 

WE  in  America  are  conversant  with 
tramp  literature.  A  number  of 
\triters  of  considerable  note  have  de- 
scribed what  is  commonly  called  the 
underworld,  among  them  Josiah  Flynt  and  Jack 
London,  who  have  ably  interpreted  the  life  and 
psychology  of  the  outcast.  But  with  all  due  re- 
spect for  their  ability,  it  must  be  said  that,  after 
all,  they  wrote  only  as  onlookers,  as  observers. 
They  were  not  tramps  ♦^hemselves,  in  the  real  sense 
of  the  word.  In  "  The  Children  of  the  Abyss  " 
Jack  London  relates  that  when  he  stood  in  the 
breadline,  he  had  money,  a  room  in  a  good  hotel, 
and  a  change  of  linen  at  hand.  He  was  therefore 
not  an  integral  part  of  the  underworld,  of  the 
homeless  and  hopeless. 

Never  before  has  anyone  given  such  a  true, 
realistic  picture  of  the  social  depths  as  Maxim 
Gorki,  himself  a  denizen  of  the  underworld  from 
his  early  childhood.  At  the  age  of  eight  he  rar 
away  from  his  poverty-stricken,  dismal  home,  and 

394 


A  Night's  Lodging 


295 


tS 


and 


for  many  years  thereafter  he  lived  the  life  of  the 
bosyaki.  He  tramped  through  the  length  and 
breadth  of  Russia;  Ke  lived  with  the  peasant,  the 
factory  worker  anu  the  outcast.  He  knew  them 
intimately;  he  understood  their  psychology,  for  he 
was  not  only  with  them,  but  of  them.  Therefore 
Gorki  has  been  able  to  present  such  a  vivid  picture 
of  the  underworld. 

"A  Night's  Lodging"  portrays  a  lodging 
house,  hideous  and  foul,  where  gather  the  social 
derelicts, —  the  thief,  the  gambler,  the  ex-artist,  the 
rx-aristocrat,  the  prostitute.  All  of  them  had  at 
one  time  an  ambition,  a  goal,  but  because  of  their 
lack  of  will  and  the  injustice  and  cruelty  of  the 
world,  they  were  forced  into  the  depths  and  cast 
back  whenever  they  attempted  to  rise.  They  are 
the  superfluous  ones,  dehumanized  and  brutalized. 

In  this  poisonous  air,  where  everything  withers 
and  dies,  we  nevertheless  find  character.  Na- 
tasha, a  young  girl,  still  retains  her  wholesome  in- 
stincts. She  had  never  known  love  or  sympathy, 
had  gone  hungry  all  her  days,  and  had  tasted  noth- 
ing but  abuse  from  her  brutal  sister,  on  whom  she 
was  dependent.  Vaska  Pepel,  the  young  thief,  a 
lodger  in  the  house,  strikes  a  responsive  chord  in 
her  the  moment  he  makes  her  feel  that  he  cares 
for  her  and  that  she  might  be  of  spiritual  and 
moral  help  to  him.  Vaska,  like  Natasha,  is  a 
product  of  his  social  environment. 


296 


Maxim  Gorki 


Vatka.  From  childhood,  I  have  been  —  only  a  thief. 
.  .  .  Always  I  was  called  Vaska  the  pickpocket,  Vaska 
the  son  of  a  thief!  See,  it  was  of  no  consequence  to  me, 
as  long  as  they  would  have  it  so  ...  so  they  would  have 
it.  ...  I  was  a  thief,  perhaps,  only  out  of  spite  ...  be- 
cause nobody  came  along  to  call  me  anything  —  thief. 
.  .  .  You  call  me  something  else,  Natasha.  ...  It  is 
no  easy  life  that  I  lead  —  friendless ;  pursued  like  a  wolf. 
...  I  sink  like  a  man  in  a  swamp  .  .  .  whatever  I  touch 
is  slimy  and  rotten  .  .  .  nothing  is  firm  .  .  .  but  you  are 
like  a  young  fir-tree;  you  are  prickly,  but  you  give  sup- 
port. 

There  is  another  humane  figure  iiluminatmg  ••'  ■; 
dark  picture  in  "  A  Night's  Lodging  ",-  -  Luka. 
He  is  the  type  of  an  old  pilgrim,  a  man  whom  the 
experiences  of  life  have  taught  wisdom.  He  has 
tramped  through  Russia  and  Siberia,  and  con- 
sorted with  all  sorts  of  people;  but  disappointment 
and  grief  have  not  robbed  him  of  his  faith  in 
beauty,  in  idealism.  He  believes  that  every  man, 
however  low,  degraded,  or  demoralized  can  yet  be 
reached,  if  we  but  know  how  to  touch  his  soul. 
Luka  inspires  courage  and  hope  in  everyone  he 
meets,  urging  each  to  begin  life  anew..  To  the 
former  actor,  now  steeped  in  drink,  he  says : 

Luka.  The  drunkard,  I  have  heard,  can  now  be  cured, 
without  charge.  They  realize  now,  you  see,  that  the 
drunkard  is  also  a  man.  You  must  begin  to  make  ready. 
Begin  a  new  life! 


'iifl 


A  Night's  Lodging 


vrj 


«•«  •, 


Luka  tries  also  to  imbue  Natasha  and  Faska 
with  new  faith.  They  marvel  at  his  goodness. 
In  simplicity  of  heart  Luka  gives  his  philosophy  of 
life. 

Luk  !  am  g;ood,  you  say.  But  you  see,  thc.t  must 
be  s<  le  one  to  be  good.  .  .  .  We  must  have  pity  on 
mankind.  .  .  .  Have  pity  while  there  is  still  time,  be* 
lieve  me,  it  is  very  good.  I  was  once,  for  example,  em- 
ployed as  a  watchman,  at  a  country  place  which  belonged 
to  an  engineer,  not  far  from  the  city  of  Tomsk,  in  Siberia. 
The  house  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  forest,  an  out-of-the- 
way  location  .  .  .  and  it  was  winter  and  I  was  all  alone 
in  the  country  house.  It  was  beautiful  there  .  .  .  mag- 
nificent! And  once  ...  I  heard  thtm  scrambling 
up!  .  .  . 

Natasha.    Thieves! 

Luka.  Yes.  They  crept  higher  and  I  took  my  rifle 
and  went  outside.  I  looked  up:  two  men  ...  as  they 
were  opening  a  window  and  so  busy  that  rey  did  not  see 
anything  of  me  at  all.  I  cried  to  them :  "  Heh  there 
...  get  out  of  that "...  and  would  you  think  it, 
they  fell  on  me  with  a  hand  ax.  ...  I  warned  them  — 
"  Halt,"  I  cried,  "  or  else  I  fire "  .  .  .  then  I  aimed 
first  at  one  and  then  at  the  other.  They  fell  on  their 
knees,  saying,  "  Pardon  us."  I  was  pretty  hot  .  .  .  on 
account  of  the  hand  ax,  you  remember.  "  You  devils,"  I 
cried,  "  I  told  you  to  clear  out  and  you  didn't  .  .  .  and 
now,"  I  said,  "  one  of  you  go  into  the  brush  and  get  a 
switch."  It  was  done.  "  And  now,"  I  commanded,  "  one 
of  you  stretch  out  on  the  ground,  and  the  other  thrash 


298 


Maxim  Gorki 


him  "...  and  so  they  whipped  each  other  at  my  com- 
mand. And  when  they  had  each  had  a  sound  beating, 
they  said  to  me:  "Grandfather,"  said  they,  "for  the 
sake  of  Christ  give  us  a  piece  of  bread.  We  haven't  a 
bite  in  our  bodies."  They  were  the  thieves,  who,  had 
fallen  upon  me  with  the  hand  ax.  Yes  .  .  .  they  were  a 
pair  of  splendid  fellows.  ...  I  said  to  them,  "  If  you  had 
asked  for  bread."  Then  they  answered :  "  We  had  got- 
ten past  that.  ...  We  had  asked  and  asked  and  nobody 
would  give  us  anything  .  .  .  endurance  was  worn  out," 
...  and  so  they  remained  with  me  the  whole  winter. 
One  of  them,  Stephen  by  name,  liked  to  take  the  rifle  and 
go  into  the  woods  ...  and  the  other,  Jakoff,  was  con- 
stantly ill,  always  coughing  ...  the  three  of  us  watched 
the  place,  and  when  spring  came,  they  said,  "  Farewell, 
grandfather,"  and  went  away  —  to  Russia.  .  .  . 

Natasha.     Were  they  convicts,  escaping? 

Luka.  They  were  .  .  .  fugitives  .  .  .  they  had  left 
their  colony  ...  a  pair  of  splendid  fellows.  ...  If  I 
had  not  had  pity  on  them  —  who  knows  what  would  have 
happened.  They  might  have  kihed  me.  .  .  .  Then  they 
w-ould  be  taken  to  court  again,  put  in  prison,  sent  back  to 
Siberia.  .  .  .  Why  all  that?  You  learn  nothing  good  in 
prison,  nor  in  Siberia  ...  but  a  man,  what  can  he  not 
learn.  Man  may  teach  his  fellowman  something  good 
.  .  .  very  simply. 

Impressed  and  strengthened  by  Luka's  wonder- 
ful faith  and  vision,  the  unfortunates  make  an  at- 
tempt to  rise  from  the  social  swamp.  But  he  has 
come  too  late  into  their  lives.    They  have  been 


A  Night's  Lodging 


299 


robbed  of  energy  and  will ;  and  conditions  always 
conspire  to  thrust  them  back  into  the  depths. 
When  Natasha  and  Vaska  are  about  to  start  out  on 
the  road  to  a  new  life,  fate  overtakes  them.  The 
girl,  during  a  scene  with  her  heartless  sister,  is  ter- 
ribly scalded  by  the  latter,  and  Vaska,  rushing  to 
the  defense  of  his  sweetheart,  encounters  her 
brutal  brother-in-law,  whom  he  accidentally  kills. 
Thus  these  "  superfluous  ones  "  go  down  in  the 
struggle.  Not  because  of  their  vicious  or  degrad- 
ing tendencies;  on  the  contrary,  it  is  their  better  in- 
stincts that  cause  them  to  be  swept  back  into  the 
abyss.  But  though  they  perish,  the  inspiration  of 
Liika  is  not  entirely  lost.  It  is  epitomized  in  the 
words  of  one  of  the  victims. 

Sahtin.  The  old  man  — he  lived  from  within.  .  .  . 
He  saw  everything  with  his  own  eyes.  ...  I  asked  him 
once:  "Grandfather,  why  do  men  really  live?"  ... 
"  Man  lives  ever  to  give  birth  to  strength.  There  live, 
for  example,  the  carpenters,  noisy,  miserable  people  .  .  . 
and  suddenly  in  their  midst  is  a  carpenter  born  .  .  .  such 
a  carpenter  as  the  world  has  never  seen:  he  is  above  all, 
no  other  carpenter  can  be  compared  to  him.  He  gives  a 
new  face  to  the  whole  trade  ...  his  own  face,  so  to 
speak  ...  and  with  that  simple  impulse  it  has  advanced 
twenty  years  ...  and  so  the  others  live  ...  the  lock- 
smiths and  the  shoemakers,  and  all  the  rest  of  the  work- 
ing people  ...  and  the  same  is  true  of  other  classes  — 
all  to  give  birth  to  strength.  Everyone  thinks  that  he  for 
himself  takes  up  room  in  the  world,  but  it  turns  out  that 


f/f*fl» 


c 


i  ' 


,111, 

■ 

1 

J^H              '/ 

1 

i  1! 

:  'i     ■ 

11    ^ 

p   1 

s^ 

I 

300 


Maxim  Gorki 


he  is  here  for  another's  benefit  —  for  someone  better  .  .  . 
a  hundred  years  ...  or  perhaps  longer.  .  .  if  we  live 
so  long  ...  for  the  sake  of  genius.  .  .  .  All,  my  chil- 
dren, all,  live  only  to  give  birth  to  strength.  For  that 
reason  we  must  respect  everybody.  We  cannot  know 
who  he  is,  for  what  purpose  born,  or  what  he  may  yet 
fulfill  .  .  .  perhaps  he  has  been  born  for  our  good  for- 
tune ...  or  great  benefit." 

No  stronger  indictment  than  "  A  Night's  Lodg- 
ing "  is  to  be  found  in  contemporary  literature  of 
our  perverse  ciyilization  that  condemns  thousan'^s 
—  often  the  very  best  men  and  women  —  to  - 
fate  of  the  Vaskas  and  Anyas,  doomed  as  super- 
fluous and  unnecessary  in  society.  And  yet  they 
are  necessary,  aye,  they  are  vital,  could  we  but  see 
beneath  the  veil  of  cold  indifference  and  stupidity 
to  discover  the  deep  humanity,  the  latent  possibili- 
ties in  these  lowliest  of  the  low.  If  within  our  so- 
cial conditions  they  are  useless  material,  often 
vicious  and  detrimental  to  the  general  good,  it  is 
because  they  have  been  denied  opportunity  and 
forced  into  conditions  that  kill  their  faith  in  them- 
selves and  all  that  is  best  in  their  natures. 

The  so-called  depravity  and  crimes  of  these 
derelicts  are  fundamentally  the  depravity  and  crim- 
inal anti-social  attitude  of  Society  itself  that  fi.-t 
creates  the  underworld  and,  having  created  it, 
wastes  much  energy  and  effort  in  suppressing  and 
destroying  the  menacing  phantom  of  its  own  mak- 


m 


A  Night's  Lodging 


301 


ing, —  forgetful  of  the  elemental  brotherhood  of 
man,  blind  to  the  value  of  the  individual,  and  igno- 
rant of  the  beautiful  possibilities  inherent  in  even 
the  most  despised  children  of  the  depths. 


LEONID  ANDREYEV 

KING-HUNGER 

LEONID  ANDREYEV  is  the  youngest 
and  at  the  present  time  the  riost  power- 
ful dramatist  of  Russia.  Like  Tchek- 
hof  and  Gorki,  he  is  very  versatile:  his 
sketches  and  stories  possess  as  fine  a  literary 
quality  and  stirring  social  appeal  as  his  plays. 

No  one  who  has  read  his  terrible  picture  of  war, 
"  The  Red  Laugh,"  or  his  unsurpassed  arraign- 
ment of  capital  punishment,  "  The  Seven  Who 
Were  Hanged,"  can  erase  from  memory  the  ef- 
fect of  Leonid  Andreyev's  forceful  pen. 

The  drama  "King-Hunger"  deals  with  the 
most  powerful  king  on  earth,—  King-Hunger.  In 
the  presence  of  Time  and  Death  he  pleads  with 
Time  to  ring  the  alarm,  to  call  the  people  to  rebel- 
lion, because  the  earth  is  replete  with  suffering: 
cities,  shops,  mines,  factories  and  fields  resound 
with  the  moans  and  groans  of  the  people.  Their 
agony  is  unbearable. 

King-Hunger.    Strike  the  bell,  old  man;  rend  to  the 
ears  its  copper  mouth.    Let  no  one  slumber ! 

302 


King-Hunger 


303 


But  Time  has  no  faith  in  King-Hunger.  He 
knows  that  Hunger  had  deceived  the  people  on 
many  occasions :  "  You  will  deceive  agam,  King- 
Hunger.  You  have  many  a  time  deluded  your 
children  and  me."  Yet  Time  is  weary  with  wait- 
ing.     He  consents  to  strike  the  bell. 

King-Hunger  calls  upon  the  workingmcn  to  re- 
bel The  scene  is  in  a  machine  shop;  the  place  is 
filled  with  deafening  noises  as  of  men's  groans. 
Every  machine,  every  tool,  every  screw,  holds  its 
human  forms  fettered  to  it  and  all  keep  pace  with 
the  maddening  speed  of  their  tormentors.  And 
through  the  thunder  and  clatter  of  iron  there  rises 
the  terrible  plaint  of  the  toilers. 

. We  are  starving. 

We  are  crusher!  by  machines. 

Their   weight   smothers   us. 

The  iron  crushes. 

The  steel  oppresses. 

Oh,  what  a  furious  weight! 

upon  me! 

Tue  whole  earth  is  upon  me. 

The  iron  hammer  flattens  me. 

blood  out  of  my  veins,  it  fractures  my  bones,  it  makes  me 

flat  as  sheet  iron.  ,     ,     .  \   „„a 

Through  the  rollers  my  body  is  pressed  and 

drawn  thin  as  wire.    Where  is  my  body?    Where  is  my 

blood?    Where  is  my  soul? 

The  wheel  is  twirling  me. 

Day  and    .ight  screaks  the  saw  cutti.ig  steel. 


As  a  mountain 


It  crushes  the 


304 


Leonid  Andreyev 


Day  and  nig^t  in  my  ears  the  screeching  of  the  saw  cut- 
ting steel.  All  the  dreams  that  I  see,  all  the  sounds  and 
songs  that  I  hear,  is  the  screeching  of  the  saw  cutting 
steel.  What  is  the  earth?  It  is  the  screeching  of  the 
saw.  What  is  the  sky?  It  is  the  screeching  of  the  saw 
cutting  steel.     Day  and  night. 

Day  and  night. 

We  are  crushed  by  the  machines. 

We  ourselves  are  parts  of  the  machines. 

Brothers  I    We  forge  our  own  chains! 

The  crushed  call  upon  King-Hunger  to  help 
them,  to  save  them  from  the  horror  of  their  life. 
Is  he  not  the  most  powerful  king  on  earth? 

King-Hunger  comes  and  exhorts  them  to  rebel. 
All  follow  his  call  except  three.  One  of  these  is 
huge  of  body,  of  Herculean  built,  large  of  muscle 
but  with  small,  flat  head  upon  his  massive 
shoulders.  The  second  workingman  is  young, 
but  with  the  mark  of  death  already  upon  his  brow. 
He  is  constantly  coughing  and  the  hectic  flush  on 
his  cheeks  betrays  the  wasting  disease  of  his  class. 
The  third  workingman  is  a  worn-out  old  man. 
Everything  about  him,  even  his  voice,  is  deathlike, 
colorless,  as  if  in  his  person  a  thousand  lives  had 
been  robbed  of  their  bloom. 

First  Workingman.  I  am  as  old  as  the  earth.  I  have 
performed  all  the  twelve  labors,  cleansed  stables,  cut  off 
the  hydra's  heads,  dug  and  vexed  the  earth,  built  cities, 
and  have  so  altered  its  face,  that  the  Creator  himself 


King-Hunger 


305 


would  not  readily  recognize  her.  But  I  can't  say  why  I 
did  all  this.  Whose  will  did  I  shape?  To  what  end 
did  I  aspire?  My  head  is  dull.  I  am  dead  tired.  My 
strength  oppresses  nie.  Explain  it  to  me,  O  King!  Or 
I'll  clutch  this  hammer  and  crack  the  earth  as  a  hollow 
nut. 

King-Hunger.  Patience,  my  son!  Save  your  powers 
for  the  last  great  revolt.     Then  you'll  know  all. 

First  fVorkingman.     I  shall  wait. 

Second  fVorkingman.  He  cannot  comprehend  it,  O 
King.  He  thinks  that  we  must  crack  the  earth.  It  is 
a  gross  falsehood,  O  King!  The  earth  is  fair  as  the 
garden  of  God.  We  must  guard  and  caress  her  as  a  lit- 
tle girl.  Many  that  stand  there  in  the  darkness  say, 
there  is  no  sky,  no  sun,  as  if  eternal  night  is  upon  the 
earth.     Just  think:  eternal  night! 

King-Hunger.  Why,  coughing  blood,  do  you  smile 
and  gaze  to  heaven? 

Second  fVorkingman.  Because  flowers  will  blossom  on 
my  blood,  and  I  see  them  now.  On  the  breast  of  a  beau- 
tiful rich  lady  I  saw  a  red  rose  —  she  didn't  know  it  was 
my  blood. 

King-Hunger.  You  are  a  poet,  my  son.  I  suppose 
you  write  verses,  as  they  do. 

Second  fVorkingman.  King,  O  King,  sneer  not  at  me. 
In  darkness  I  learned  to  worship  fire.  Dying  I  under- 
stood that  life  is  enchanting.  Oh,  how  enchanting! 
King,  it  shall  become  a  great  garden,  and  there  shall  walk 
in  peace,  unmolested,  men  and  animals.  Dare  not  ruffle 
the  animals!  Wrong  not  any  man!  Let  them  play, 
embrace,  care^  one  another  —  let  them!    But  where  is 


f  SI 


3o6 


Leonid  Andreyev 


«?''' 


the  path?    Where  is  the  path?    Explain,  King-Hunger. 

King-Hunger.     Revolt. 

Second  Workingman.  Through  violence  to  freedom? 
Through  blood  to  love  and  kisses? 

King-Hunger.    There  is  no  other  way. 

Third  fVorkingman.  You  He,  King-Hunger.  Then 
you  have  killed  my  father  and  grandfather  and  great- 
grandfather, and  would'st  thou  kill  us?  Where  do  you 
lead  us,  unarmed  ?  Don't  you  see  how  ignorant  we  are, 
how  blind  and  impotent.  You  are  a  traitor.  Only  here 
you  are  a  king,  but'  there  you  lackey  upon  their  tables. 
Only  here  you  wear  a  crown,  but  there  you  walk  about 
with  a  napkin. 

King-Hunger  will  not  listen  to  their  protest. 
He  gives  them  the  alternative  of  rebellion  or  starv- 
ation for  themselves  and  their  children.  They 
decide  to  rebel,  for  King-Hunger  is  the  most 
powerful  king  on  earth. 

The  subjects  of  King-Hunger,  the  people  of  the 
underworld,  gather  to  devise  ways  and  means 
of  rebellion.  A  gruesome  assembly  this,  held  in 
the  cellar.  Above  is  the  palace  ringing  with  music 
and  laughter,  the  fine  ladies  :n  gorgeous  splendor, 
bedecked  with  flowers  and  costly  jewels,  the  tables 
laden  with  rich  food  and  delicious  wines.  Every- 
thing is  most  exquisite  there,  joyous  and  happy. 
And  underneaths  in  the  cellar,  the  underworld  is 
gathered,  all  the  dregs  of  society:  the  robber  and 
the  murderer,  the  thief  and  the  prostitute,  the 


King-Hunger 


307 


gambler  and  the  drunkard.  They  have  come  to 
consult  with  each  other  how  poverty  is  to  rebel, 
how  to  throw  off  the  yoke,  and  what  to  do  with  the 
rich. 

Various  suggestions  are  made.  One  advises 
poisoning  the  supply  of  water.  But  this  is  con- 
demned on  the  ground  that  the  people  also  have  to 
drink  from  the  same  source. 

Another  suggests  that  all  books  should  be  burned 
for  they  teach  the  rich  how  to  oppress.  But  the 
motion  fails.  What  is  the  use  of  burning  the 
books?  The  wealthy  have  money;  they  will  buy 
writers,  poets  and  scientists  to  make  new  books. 

A  third  proposes  that  the  children  of  the  rich 
be  killed.  From  the  darkest,  most  dismal  corner 
of  the  cellar  comes  the  protest  of  an  old  woman: 
"  Oh,  not  the  children.  Don't  touch  the  children. 
I  have  buried  many  of  them  myself.  I  know  the 
pain  of  the  mother.  Besides,  the  children  are  not 
to  blame  for  the  crimes  of  their  parents.  Don't 
touch  the  children  I  Tb"  child  is  pure  and  sacred. 
Don't  hurt  the  child !  " 

A  little  girl  rises,  a  child  of  twelve  with  the  face 
of  the  aged.  She  announces  that  for  the  last  four 
years  she  has  given  her  body  for  money.  She  had 
been  sold  by  her  mother  because  they  needed  bread 
for  the  smaller  children.  During  the  four  years 
of  her  terrible  life,  she  has  consorted  with  all  kinds 
of  men,  influential  men,  rich  men,  pious  men. 


3o8 


Leonid  Andreyev 


i 


They  infected  her.     Therefore  she  proposes  that 
the  rich  should  be  infected. 

The  underworld  plans  and  plots,  and  the  grue- 
some meeting  is  closed  with  a  frenzied  dance  |)e- 
tween  King-Hunger  and  ueath,  to  the  music  of  the 
dance  above. 

King-Hunger  is  at  the  trial  of  the  StMrving.  He 
is  the  most  powerful  king  on  earth :  he  is  at  home 
everywhere,  but^nowhere  more  so  than  at  the  trial 
of  the  Starving.  On  high  chairs  sit  the  judges,  in 
all  their  bloated  importance.  The  courtroom  is 
filled  with  curiosity  seekers,  idle  ladies  dressed  as 
if  for  a  ball;  college  professors  and  students  look- 
ing for  object  lessons  in  criminal  depravity;  rich 
young  girls  are  there,  to  satisfy  a  perverted  craving 
for  excitement. 

The  first  starveling  is  brought  in  muzzled. 

King-Hunger.    What  is  your  offense,  starveling? 

Old  Man.  I  stole  a  five-pound  loaf,  but  it  was 
wrested  from  me.  I  had  only  time  to  bite  a  small  piece 
of  it.     Forgive  me,  I  will  never  again  — 

He  is  condemned  in  the  name  of  the  Law  and 
King-Hunger,  the  most  powerful  king  on  earth. 

Another  starveling  is  brought  before  the  bar  of 
justice.  It  is  a  woman,  young  and  beautiful,  but 
pale  and  sad.  She  is  charged  with  killing  her 
child. 


King-Hunger 


309 


Young  PFomtm.  One  night  my  baby  and  I  crossed 
the  long  bridge  over  the  river.  And  since  I  had  long  be- 
fore decided,  so  then  approaching  the  middle,  where  the 
river  is  deep  and  swift,  I  said :  "  Look,  baby  dear,  how 
the  water  is  a-roaring  below."  She  said,  "  I  can't  reach, 
mamma,  the  railing  is  so  high."  I  said,  "  Come,  let  me 
lift  you,  baby  dear."  And  when  she  was  gazing  down 
into  the  black  deep,  I  threw  her  over.     That's  all. 

The  Law  and  Klng-HuKytr  condemn  the  woman 
to  "blackest  hell,"  there  to  be  "tormented  and 
burned  in  everlasting,  slackless  fires." 

The  heavy  responsibility  of  meting  out  justice 
has  fatigued  the  judges.  The  excitement  of  the 
trial  has  sharpened  the  appetite  of  the  spectators. 
King-Hunger,  at  home  with  all  people,  proposes 
that  the  court  adjourn  for  luncheon. 

The  scene  in  the  restaurant  represents  Hunger 
devouring  like  a  wild  beast  the  produce  of  toil, 
ravenous,  famished,  the  victim  of  his  own  glutton- 
ous greed. 

The  monster  fed,  his  hunger  and  thirst  ap- 
peased,  he  now  returns  to  sit  In  self-satisfied  judg- 
ment over  the  Starving.  The  judges  are  more 
bloated  than  befoip,  the  ladies  more  eager  to  bask 
in  the  misery  of  their  fellor/s.  The  college  pro- 
fessors and  students,  mentally  heavy  with  food,  are 
still  anxious  to  add  data  to  the  study  of  human 
criminality. 


%, 


310  Leonid  Andreyev 

A  lean  boy  is  brought  in,  muz/.led;  he  is  fol- 
lowed by  a  ragged  woman. 

Woman.  Have  mercy!  He  stole  an  apple  for  ire, 
your  Honor.  I  was  sick,  thought  he.  "  Let  me  bring 
her  a  little  apple."  Pity  him !  Tell  them  that  you  won't 
any  more.     Well!     Speak! 

Starveling.     I  won't  any  more. 

Woman.  I've  already  punished  him  myself.  Pity  hit 
youth,  cut  not  at  the  root  his  bright  little  days! 

Voices.  Indeed,  pity  one  and  then  the  next.  Cut  the 
evil  at  its  roots. 

One  needs  courage  to  be  ruthless. 

It  is  better  for  them. 

Now  he  is  only  a  boy,  but  when  he  grows  up  — 

King-Hunger.     Starveling,  you  are  condemned. 

A  Starveling,  heavily  mu*.zltJ,  is  dragged  in. 
He  is  big  and  strong.  He  protests  to  the  court :  he 
has  always  been  a  faithful  slave.  But  King- 
Huntier  announces  that  the  man  is  dangerous,  be- 
cause the  faithful  slave,  being  strong  and  honest,  is 
"  obnoxious  to  people  of  refined  culture  and  less 
brawny."  The  slave  is  faithful  to-day,  King- 
Hunger  warns  the  judges,  but  "  who  can  trust  the 
to-morrow?  Then  in  his  strength  and  integrity 
we  will  encounter  a  violent  and  dangerous  enemy." 

In  the  name  of  justice  the  faithful  slave  is  con- 
demned.  Finally  the  last  starveling  appears.  He 
looks  half  human,  half  beast. 


Kinq-Uuntji'r 


3n 


King'Hunger.  Who  are  you,  starvcliiiy;?  Answer. 
Do  ynii  understand  human  speech? 

Starveling.     We  are  the  peasants. 

King-Hunger.     What's  your  offense? 

Starveling.     We  killed  the  devil. 

King-Hunger.     It  was  a  man  whom  you  burnt. 

Starveling.  No,  it  was  the  devil.  The  priest  told  us 
to,  and  then  we  burnt  him. 

The  peasant  is  condemned.     The  session  of  the 
Court  closes  with  a  brief  speech  by  King-Himger: 

King-Hunger.  To-day  you  witnessed  a  highly  in- 
structive spectacle.  Divine,  eternal  justice  has  found  in 
us,  as  judges  and  your  retainers,  its  brilliant  reflection  on 
earth.  Subject  only  to  the  laws  of  immortal  equity,  un- 
known to  culpable  compassion,  indifferent  to  cursing  and 
entreating  prayers,  obeying  the  voice  of  our  conscience 
alone  —  wc  illumed  this  earth  with  the  light  of  human 
wisdom  and  sublime,  sacred  truth.  Not  for  a  single 
moment  forgetting  that  justice  is  the  foundation  of  life, 
we  have  crucified  the  Christ  in  days  gone  by  and  since, 
to  this  very  day,  we  cease  not  to  grace  Golgotha  with  new 
crosses.  But,  certainly,  only  ruffians,  only  ruffians  are 
hanged.  We  showed  no  mercy  to  God  himself,  in  the 
name  of  the  laws  of  immortal  justice  —  would  we  be 
now  disconcerted  by  the  howling  of  this  impotent,  starv- 
ing rabble,  by  their  cursing  and  raging?  Let  them  curse! 
Life  herself  blesses  us,  the  great  sacred  truth  will  screen 
us  with  her  veil,  and  the  very  decree  of  history  will  not 
be  more  just  than  cur  own.  What  have  they  gained  by 
cursing?    What?    They  arc   there,   we're  here.    They 


312 


Leonid  Andreyev 


Hi  I 


i 

'■S 

I 

fi': 


are  in  dungeons,  in  galleys,  on  crosses,  but  we  will  go  to 
the  theater.  They  perish,  but  we  will  devour  them  — 
devour  —  devour. 

The  court  has  fulfilled  its  mission.  Kiftff- 
Hunger  is  the  most  powerful  king  on  earth. 

The  starvelings  break  out  in  revolt.  The  bells 
peal  with  deafening  thunder;  all  is  confusion  and 
chaos.  The  city  is  immersed  in  the  blackness  of 
despair,  and  all'  is  dark.  Now  and  then  gusts  of 
fire  sweep  the  sky  illuminating  the  scene  of  battle. 
The  air  is  filled  with  cries  and  groans ;  there  is  the 
thud  of  falling  bodies,  and  still  the  fight  goes  on. 

In  a  secluded  part  of  the  town  stands  the  castle. 
In  its  most  magnificent  ballroom  the  rich  and  their 
lackeys  —  scientists,  teachers  and  artists  —  are 
gathered.  They  tremble  with  fear  at  the  ominous 
sounds  outside.  To  silence  the  loud  beat  of  their 
terror  they  command  the  musicians  to  strike  up  the 
liveliest  tunes,  and  the  guests  whirl  about  in  a  mad 
dance. 

From  time  to  time  the  door  is  forced  open  and 
someone  drops  exhausted  to  the  floor.  An  artist 
rushes  in,  crying  out  that  the  art  gallery  is  in 
flames. 

"  Murillo  is  burning!  Velasquez  is  burning! 
Giorgione  is  burning !  " 

He  is  not  in  the  least  concerned  with  living 


•^*«^, 


King-Hunger 


313 


values  t  h>-  dwells  in  the  past  and  he  wildly  bewails 
the  c;  id  weigh:  jf  the  past. 

O-e  ttter  an>  cher  men  rush  in  to  report  the 
burni'VT  ,£  i^branes,  the  breaking  of  statues,  and 
the  destruction  of  monuments.  No  one  among  the 
wealthy  mob  regrets  the  slaughter  of  human  life. 

Panic-stricken  the  mighty  fall  from  their 
thrones.  The  Starving,  infuriated  and  vengeful, 
are  marching  on  the  masters !  They  must  not  see 
the  craven  fear  of  the  huddled  figures  in  the  man- 
sions,—  the  lights  are  turned  off.  But  darkness 
is  even  more  terrible  to  the  frightened  palace  mob. 
In  the  madness  of  terror  they  begin  to  accuse  and 
denounce  each  other.  They  feel  as  helpless  as 
children  before  the  approaching  avalanche  of 
vengeance. 

At  this  critical  moment  a  man  appears.  He  is 
small,  dirty,  and  unwashed;  he  smells  of  cheap 
whisky  and  bad  tobacco ;  he  blows  his  nose  with  a 
red  handkerchief  and  his  manners  are  disgusting. 
He  is  the  engineer.  He  looks  calmly  about  him, 
presses  a  button,  and  the  place  is  flooded  with 
light.  He  brings  the  comforting  news  that  the 
revolt  is  crushed. 

Engineer.  On  Sunny  Hill  we  planted  a  line  of  im- 
mense machine  guns  of  enormous  power.  ...  A  few 
projectiles  of  a  specially  destructive  power  ...  A  public 
square  filled  with  people  .  .  .  Enough  one  or  two  such 


314 


Leonid  Andreyev 


\, 


shells.  .  .  .  And  should  the  revolt  still  continue,  we'll 
shower  the  city. 

The  revolt  is  over.  All  Is  quiet  —  the  peace  of 
death.  The  ground  is  strewn  with  bodies,  the 
streets  are  soaked  with  blood.  Fine  ladies  flit 
about.  They  lift  their  children  and  bid  them 
kiss  the  mouth  of  the  cannon,  for  the  cannon  have 
saved  the  rich  from  destruction.  Prayers  and 
hymns  are  offered  up  to  the  cannon,  for  they  have 
saved  the  masters  and  punished  the  starvelings. 
And  all  is  quiet,  with  the  stillness  of  the  graveyard 
where  sleep  the  dead. 

King-Hunger,  with  hollow  cheeks  and  sunken 
eyes,  makeb  a  desperate  last  appeal  to  his  chil- 
dren. 

King-Hunger.  Oh,  my  son,  my  son!  You  clamored 
so  loud  —  why  are  you  mute?  Oh,  my  daughter,  my 
daughter,  you  hated  so  profoundly,  so  intensely,  you  most 
miserable  on  earth  —  arise.  Arise  from  the  dust !  Rend 
the  shadowy  bonds  of  death!  Arise!  I  conjure  you  in 
the  name  of  Life !  —    You're  silent  ? 

For  a  brief  moment  all  remains  si'ent  and  im- 
movable. Suddenly  a  sound  is  heard,  distant  at 
first,  then  nearer  and  nearer,  till  a  thousand- 
throated  roar  breaks  forth  like  thunder: 

We  shall  yet  come! 

We  shall  yet  come! 

Woe  unto  the  victorious! 


King-Hunger 


315 


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The  Victors  pale  at  the  ghostly  cry.  Seized 
with  terror,  they  run,  wildly  howling: 

The  dead  arise! 

The  dead  arise! 

"  We  shall  yet  come  1  "  cry  the  dead.  For  they 
who  died  for  an  ideal  never  die  in  vain.  They 
must  come  back,  they  shall  come  back.  And  then 
—  woe  be  to  the  victorious!  King-Hunger  is  in- 
deed the  most  terrible  king  on  earth,  but  only  for 
those  who  are  driven  by  blind  forces  alone. 

But  they  who  can  turn  on  the  light,  know  the 
power  of  the  things  they  have  created.  They  will 
come,  and  take  possession, —  no  longer  the 
^    rched  scum,  but  the  masters  of  the  world. 

Tiessage  revolutionary,  deeply  social  in  its 
s  v^yc,  illumining  with  glorious  hope  the  dismal 
horizon  of  the  disinherited  of  the  earth. 


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